GENTLEMEN'S SOCIETY GATHERING
Steam Room, Grosvenor Hotel, London, November 2004
Gentlemen,
This is your officially appointed Secretary General. I am contacting you all on matters of protocol and policy within the Gentlemen's society.
Regrettably, I am leaving for Bahrain on the 2nd of next month. Marjorie
has become embroiled in things over there, and I must go there and defend her case at the highest court in that land. While I will always
remain a staunch affiliate of our society, matters of Gentlemen do not
attend to themselves.
I therefore call to order all that partook in the inaugural meeting. You
may recall I was blessed with the aforementioned title. With heavy
heart, I realise I must now pass on that torch to another. Please
consider carefully your choice of nomination. As my last act of office I
will oversee the voting process, providing pens, paper and a ballot box.
(Note: black ball rules apply).
During my tenure as Secretary General, I have been accosted by various women - inexplicable creatures of the opposite sex - who tried to berate me for not inviting them into the inner confines of our group. A
comprehensive explanation of the nature of our society provided little
relief. So I propose that the no-tails be allowed to attend, on the
understanding that they adhere to strict conditions.
The Conditions for Female Attendance:
1.They must have been formally invited by a Gentleman
2.Their designated Gentleman must assume full responsibility for
their female's actions.
3.The Gentleman must apologise for any
inappropriate or inane conversational gambits, and be prepared to escort
them swiftly from the premises should the female become unbearable or
'emotional'.
4.Any female attendee MUST wear facial hair - moustaches or beards
only please. (Fake facial hair is acceptable).
Any Gentleman found contravening these stipulations will naturally be
expelled from the Society.
Some of those attending were with me in the 'Mob' and although they will
tolerate civilian company, please be sure to elucidate any of your more
left-field or wish-washy views with a full rendition of the society
anthem - Whitesnake's 'Straight for the Heart'.
"...Stand and deliver in the name of love ..."
Roger J Harbinger QC Bar (retd.)
Showing posts with label The Harbinger. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Harbinger. Show all posts
The Harbinger part 5
Returned from a stag weekend in a train from Paignton this afternoon, grubby and emasculated by the great big hormone of a group I have spent the last 48 hours in the company of.
The weekend had it’s highpoint with a gloriously perverted incident in the early hours of Sunday morning. The group, dressed in mackintoshes and false moustaches (save the stag, in a pink panther suit) shambled down from the village towards the moonlit Cornish beach. As we got nearer it became obvious that a little local event or other was taking place on the beach. The sound of the tide punctured by chatter, and flickers of light leapt above the prom as we approached the shingle.
There were in fact a group of ten or twelve people on the beach. The men were topless and four females were in attendance. Forming a circle round two of the men who were brawling amidst shouts of some excitement, clearer and clearer as we approached. I saw the stag and his best man quicken the pace and happily jog towards the locals. One of the men was winning the fight. This much was clear from forty yards, and I decided to keep my distance. Our panther of a stag hastened towards the brawl, in many ways more animal than human, urinating as he ran.
“Oi’m a nutter!! Oi’m a nutter!!” screamed the stag.
“Fuck off back to London!” replied a male spectator.
“But o’im a fookin nutter!!” shouted the groom-to-be again.
“Fuck off back to London! This is our life and you can fuck off,” said the chap once more.
“Yeah, fuck off!” echoed two, maybe three others in the local party, difficult to tell as they all looked remarkably similar in features and dress. A sort of polyester plus four in the tracksuit style, white tennis shoes, and close cropped hair. It was hard to tell through the fire-light, and perhaps the emotion of five or possibly seven gin and tonics was fugging my brains somewhat – but I had to fight the urge to ask the first man if perhaps he, like Liberace, was fond of surrounding himself with look-a-likes.
The pink stag, himself a policeman standing a full head higher than the average man, seemed amused by all this. He turned his attention to the unbelievably hairy man with the four-pack stomach who at this time was standing with his foot on his last victim’s head while pulling the other man’s leg back in excruciating fashion. The man in his grip was crying tears of agony.
“Come on Haystacks. Fuckin’ fight me!”
My god! The thought! Panther’s head gnawed out of its sod by some son-of-a-Thursday-morning bread and cheese sexton. I took off my shoes and watched as our stag and Haystacks squared up. That peculiar rough yet pleasant feeling afforded by shingle on bare feet reminded me of my driveway at home, where in summer I trip gaily and sockless over my own Three Colour shingle from B&Q, in transit from clipping the hedge or tinkering in the nethers of my quad bike in the garage.
Blows were exchanged. Panther hit hard and the power of his shots belied the fact that his opponent would have been a good two stones heavier. A cry went up from the locals – “Toohey! Toohey!” And Toohey responded with a sickening combination of prize-fighting brilliance. Somehow the groom rode this assault and punched Toohey to the ground, but the bigger man took the Pink Panther down with him.
The crowd screamed and bayed and begged and swayed. For him who is overcome by death no protection is there from kinsmen, I thought. Siddhartha must still have been with me since my afternoon with Buddhism last week. The local man next to me tapped my shoulder and just audibly over the commotion he said (and I had to have him repeat himself twice), “As a child I had a toy dog called Rags, a teddy bear and a rabbit, but only Rags meant anything to me. It sat on the dining table at meals, until one day it fell with its ears into the mint sauce. It was hung out many days to sweeten, and washed and scented, but I never felt the same about it.”
From somewhere though, in amongst the shouts for Toohey, louder and louder came another cry. “Panther! Panther! PA-N-THER!!” The panther camp was not exclusively the stag-party. Some of the local girls were leading the chant.
The group was about half and half in support of each man, and the epic scrap continued until finally Panther was forced to submit. He walked away with a girl on each arm, and I heard him cut quite a dash with a composed “But of course darling, as you were about to remark with such truth, it really is lovely to work off a hard evening on the drink.”
Toohey got me to thinking what Giant Haystacks would be doing were he still alive today. I’ve come to conclude that his physique would make him a perfect and formidable nightclub bouncer. It’s likely that with his cult UK celebrity he would still work on TV from time to time.
I cried tears of happiness such as you read of in books.
The weekend had it’s highpoint with a gloriously perverted incident in the early hours of Sunday morning. The group, dressed in mackintoshes and false moustaches (save the stag, in a pink panther suit) shambled down from the village towards the moonlit Cornish beach. As we got nearer it became obvious that a little local event or other was taking place on the beach. The sound of the tide punctured by chatter, and flickers of light leapt above the prom as we approached the shingle.
There were in fact a group of ten or twelve people on the beach. The men were topless and four females were in attendance. Forming a circle round two of the men who were brawling amidst shouts of some excitement, clearer and clearer as we approached. I saw the stag and his best man quicken the pace and happily jog towards the locals. One of the men was winning the fight. This much was clear from forty yards, and I decided to keep my distance. Our panther of a stag hastened towards the brawl, in many ways more animal than human, urinating as he ran.
“Oi’m a nutter!! Oi’m a nutter!!” screamed the stag.
“Fuck off back to London!” replied a male spectator.
“But o’im a fookin nutter!!” shouted the groom-to-be again.
“Fuck off back to London! This is our life and you can fuck off,” said the chap once more.
“Yeah, fuck off!” echoed two, maybe three others in the local party, difficult to tell as they all looked remarkably similar in features and dress. A sort of polyester plus four in the tracksuit style, white tennis shoes, and close cropped hair. It was hard to tell through the fire-light, and perhaps the emotion of five or possibly seven gin and tonics was fugging my brains somewhat – but I had to fight the urge to ask the first man if perhaps he, like Liberace, was fond of surrounding himself with look-a-likes.
The pink stag, himself a policeman standing a full head higher than the average man, seemed amused by all this. He turned his attention to the unbelievably hairy man with the four-pack stomach who at this time was standing with his foot on his last victim’s head while pulling the other man’s leg back in excruciating fashion. The man in his grip was crying tears of agony.
“Come on Haystacks. Fuckin’ fight me!”
My god! The thought! Panther’s head gnawed out of its sod by some son-of-a-Thursday-morning bread and cheese sexton. I took off my shoes and watched as our stag and Haystacks squared up. That peculiar rough yet pleasant feeling afforded by shingle on bare feet reminded me of my driveway at home, where in summer I trip gaily and sockless over my own Three Colour shingle from B&Q, in transit from clipping the hedge or tinkering in the nethers of my quad bike in the garage.
Blows were exchanged. Panther hit hard and the power of his shots belied the fact that his opponent would have been a good two stones heavier. A cry went up from the locals – “Toohey! Toohey!” And Toohey responded with a sickening combination of prize-fighting brilliance. Somehow the groom rode this assault and punched Toohey to the ground, but the bigger man took the Pink Panther down with him.
The crowd screamed and bayed and begged and swayed. For him who is overcome by death no protection is there from kinsmen, I thought. Siddhartha must still have been with me since my afternoon with Buddhism last week. The local man next to me tapped my shoulder and just audibly over the commotion he said (and I had to have him repeat himself twice), “As a child I had a toy dog called Rags, a teddy bear and a rabbit, but only Rags meant anything to me. It sat on the dining table at meals, until one day it fell with its ears into the mint sauce. It was hung out many days to sweeten, and washed and scented, but I never felt the same about it.”
From somewhere though, in amongst the shouts for Toohey, louder and louder came another cry. “Panther! Panther! PA-N-THER!!” The panther camp was not exclusively the stag-party. Some of the local girls were leading the chant.
The group was about half and half in support of each man, and the epic scrap continued until finally Panther was forced to submit. He walked away with a girl on each arm, and I heard him cut quite a dash with a composed “But of course darling, as you were about to remark with such truth, it really is lovely to work off a hard evening on the drink.”
Toohey got me to thinking what Giant Haystacks would be doing were he still alive today. I’ve come to conclude that his physique would make him a perfect and formidable nightclub bouncer. It’s likely that with his cult UK celebrity he would still work on TV from time to time.
I cried tears of happiness such as you read of in books.
The Harbinger part 4
Dear Danny,
Why have you forsaken me? I'm wearing your jock-strap taped high in to my inner thigh, rubbing into my manhole. You saw me I think, this morning. I saw the curtain twitch as I took off down the gravel drive and I slept under the old oak, where she used to kick her legs, tired from walking in the graveyard picking off the lichen to reveal ....old names!! And as I slept I dreamt I was a woman and you were my man. Here is my dream.....
"She got up. The sunlight cracked through the broken blinds, and she shuddered. A thin small line of urine, left in her tube these 18 hours of sleep, now seeped from her panties down her inner thigh.
"Christ!" she exclaimed. "Fucking Christ..." But her shrill cry just tailed off into a whimper.
The flannels still sat there, washed and ironed, where she had presented them. As commanded. But so much had happened since. So much of the usual, she thought to herseld as she ran one manicured nail over the crease in the cricket trousers. And, before she knew humanly what she was doing, she was tugging off her cerise pink teddie, tearing at her stockings and replacing them with the pressed cricket flannels. She was wearing his whites.
She vomited a small spew on the floor at sheer pleasure of feeling his trousers against her naked skin.
Awoken to the sheer power of her dress, topless, she made now for the old-fashioned 'jock-strap' he insisted on wearing. Something about "protecting the crown jewels for my little princess," he used to say to her, with one thick hand around her chin and Remy Martin breath all over her face. She picked up the contraption and used a stray piece of elastic to tie it to her upper inner thigh. Next she bounded from the house and away, down the gravel drive, enjoying the pain of the stone 'neath her feet. The jock-strap curiously gripped in to her with every stride, and soon she was coming with every 9 yards. Expiation is impossible, sin is endless, she thought....."
yours,
Roger.
Harbinger,
A telegram to my office? Are you mad, man? The typing pool is awash with rumour and I now have to undergo the ignominy of drinking from the automatic water fountain under the smirking gaze of a dozen bovine wittering females.
As to your question of abandonment, since Furbish-Jennings withered under my coruscating attack on his Commie leanings in the Union, I have discovered a new love, other than you and your myopic approach to living this life we are forced into. My debating society has provided me with a freshly discovered sense of pride in my own abilities and this, my dear Harbinger, has led me into the wanton meadows of onanism and self-exploration to the nth degree.
I no longer require your services, yet, touchingly, wish you all the best with your chosen career path in the work of cricketing merchandise retail.
Should you need to call upon me for anything, do call my manservant Adams and arrange a luncheon date forthwith.
I shall never forget our sun-soaked days on the Cam.
Yours,
D.H.
Why have you forsaken me? I'm wearing your jock-strap taped high in to my inner thigh, rubbing into my manhole. You saw me I think, this morning. I saw the curtain twitch as I took off down the gravel drive and I slept under the old oak, where she used to kick her legs, tired from walking in the graveyard picking off the lichen to reveal ....old names!! And as I slept I dreamt I was a woman and you were my man. Here is my dream.....
"She got up. The sunlight cracked through the broken blinds, and she shuddered. A thin small line of urine, left in her tube these 18 hours of sleep, now seeped from her panties down her inner thigh.
"Christ!" she exclaimed. "Fucking Christ..." But her shrill cry just tailed off into a whimper.
The flannels still sat there, washed and ironed, where she had presented them. As commanded. But so much had happened since. So much of the usual, she thought to herseld as she ran one manicured nail over the crease in the cricket trousers. And, before she knew humanly what she was doing, she was tugging off her cerise pink teddie, tearing at her stockings and replacing them with the pressed cricket flannels. She was wearing his whites.
She vomited a small spew on the floor at sheer pleasure of feeling his trousers against her naked skin.
Awoken to the sheer power of her dress, topless, she made now for the old-fashioned 'jock-strap' he insisted on wearing. Something about "protecting the crown jewels for my little princess," he used to say to her, with one thick hand around her chin and Remy Martin breath all over her face. She picked up the contraption and used a stray piece of elastic to tie it to her upper inner thigh. Next she bounded from the house and away, down the gravel drive, enjoying the pain of the stone 'neath her feet. The jock-strap curiously gripped in to her with every stride, and soon she was coming with every 9 yards. Expiation is impossible, sin is endless, she thought....."
yours,
Roger.
Harbinger,
A telegram to my office? Are you mad, man? The typing pool is awash with rumour and I now have to undergo the ignominy of drinking from the automatic water fountain under the smirking gaze of a dozen bovine wittering females.
As to your question of abandonment, since Furbish-Jennings withered under my coruscating attack on his Commie leanings in the Union, I have discovered a new love, other than you and your myopic approach to living this life we are forced into. My debating society has provided me with a freshly discovered sense of pride in my own abilities and this, my dear Harbinger, has led me into the wanton meadows of onanism and self-exploration to the nth degree.
I no longer require your services, yet, touchingly, wish you all the best with your chosen career path in the work of cricketing merchandise retail.
Should you need to call upon me for anything, do call my manservant Adams and arrange a luncheon date forthwith.
I shall never forget our sun-soaked days on the Cam.
Yours,
D.H.
The Harbinger part 3
I've been in Australia since we last spoke, and I can assure you that was exciting and modestly extreme. It's always strengthens one to do something involving lengthy travel, a woman and stupidity. And Australia seemed like a fine place. The whole affair has spared me the trouble of my usual melodramatic holiday-search, this year. Instead of jumping on a ferry at Harwich and seeing where I end up, this summer I have decided to see it out in my modest quarters here in London. At this time I am quiescent, lest sporadic manual labour and the odd life-drawing class.
For four hours last Thursday I became a humanitarian vegetarian, pushing aside the sardines on my plate, sating myself merely with the watercress and artichoke hearts. I happened to be fingering a copy of The Idler, and a particularly ingratiating article about 'Buddhism in cold climates' had diverted me. The crux of the piece appeared to be about the feasibility of this most fascinating of religions in temperate parts of the world. Can one accept that all existence is suffering, that the cause of suffering is desire and that freedom from suffering is nirvana when day-in day-out cloud and sodding rain? Is it any wonder we're so alienated as a people, I meditated, a fork limply hanging from my mit.
And it was only the appearance of my acupuncturist Gerry clutching a bottle of good dry Turkish red and a cylinder of Spanish Sausage, round about tea-time that really lapsed my flirtation with vegetarianism. I'm down to half a sugar in my PG in the morning, though.
I think the Buddhist theme is one that becomes hard to shake. A good friend of mine killed himself recently. I'd made him promise that if he ever felt the urge to shuffle anything off he should telephone immediately. If he was to kill himself I was to be present in the room. I'd forced him to agree to this much. He didn't keep to his word unfortunately, choosing instead to leap from the roof of the Ibis hotel in Reading. He left no note.
We were both men who knew depravity and the rules regarding the wearing of tan footwear. He was the type who tried really to rush through life with his head down and his collar turned up, and I rather think he'd prefer to avoid the afterlife, or even what Mr Hendrix described as 'not to die but to be reborn'. He didn't want to be here in the first place.
Who wants to come back as a frog, when the chances are you'll end up in a lab somewhere being thrown bodily against a brick wall by a technician and dunked in acid in order that the boffins can see your spinal cord at work??
I shall miss his intermittent visits to my boudoir, always unannounced, and rarely with very much to say. I would offer him a cup of tea and he would always say, "No thank you, just a cup of boiling water, please." He was fond of hot water, and would try and savour the difference between one cup of water and another. It was rather like having an imaginary friend in some ways. The stillness of the man and his habit of saying nothing further for the rest of his visit was at times quite chilling. It all brought back memories of a childhood imaginary companion I had, who hated me.
No man is an island, entire of itself … any man's death diminishes me because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.
I shall endeavour to be at the Pleasure Unit in Bethnal Green at 'The Show' next time round, and I will introduce myself to anybody wearing a desert spoon in their breast pocket. I'm actually having my hair washed that night, but I've recently acquired a Revlon Celeb Hair Stylist dryer, so I shall probably be along without any kind of frizz.
Pip pip
Roger J Harbinger QC Bar (retd.)
Harbinger dispatch is camp x-ray 'APPROVED'. When I was in the RAF we
had a pretty good relationship with the USAAF.
I can remember a conversation I had with a Stealth Bomber Pilot only
very recently, and I said to him "What are you gonna do when this damn
show's over Tiger (a playful name I had for many of the boys in
there)?"
"You can't talk to me that way" he said, "I'm a free American."
Roger J Harbinger QC Bar (retd.)
For four hours last Thursday I became a humanitarian vegetarian, pushing aside the sardines on my plate, sating myself merely with the watercress and artichoke hearts. I happened to be fingering a copy of The Idler, and a particularly ingratiating article about 'Buddhism in cold climates' had diverted me. The crux of the piece appeared to be about the feasibility of this most fascinating of religions in temperate parts of the world. Can one accept that all existence is suffering, that the cause of suffering is desire and that freedom from suffering is nirvana when day-in day-out cloud and sodding rain? Is it any wonder we're so alienated as a people, I meditated, a fork limply hanging from my mit.
And it was only the appearance of my acupuncturist Gerry clutching a bottle of good dry Turkish red and a cylinder of Spanish Sausage, round about tea-time that really lapsed my flirtation with vegetarianism. I'm down to half a sugar in my PG in the morning, though.
I think the Buddhist theme is one that becomes hard to shake. A good friend of mine killed himself recently. I'd made him promise that if he ever felt the urge to shuffle anything off he should telephone immediately. If he was to kill himself I was to be present in the room. I'd forced him to agree to this much. He didn't keep to his word unfortunately, choosing instead to leap from the roof of the Ibis hotel in Reading. He left no note.
We were both men who knew depravity and the rules regarding the wearing of tan footwear. He was the type who tried really to rush through life with his head down and his collar turned up, and I rather think he'd prefer to avoid the afterlife, or even what Mr Hendrix described as 'not to die but to be reborn'. He didn't want to be here in the first place.
Who wants to come back as a frog, when the chances are you'll end up in a lab somewhere being thrown bodily against a brick wall by a technician and dunked in acid in order that the boffins can see your spinal cord at work??
I shall miss his intermittent visits to my boudoir, always unannounced, and rarely with very much to say. I would offer him a cup of tea and he would always say, "No thank you, just a cup of boiling water, please." He was fond of hot water, and would try and savour the difference between one cup of water and another. It was rather like having an imaginary friend in some ways. The stillness of the man and his habit of saying nothing further for the rest of his visit was at times quite chilling. It all brought back memories of a childhood imaginary companion I had, who hated me.
No man is an island, entire of itself … any man's death diminishes me because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.
I shall endeavour to be at the Pleasure Unit in Bethnal Green at 'The Show' next time round, and I will introduce myself to anybody wearing a desert spoon in their breast pocket. I'm actually having my hair washed that night, but I've recently acquired a Revlon Celeb Hair Stylist dryer, so I shall probably be along without any kind of frizz.
Pip pip
Roger J Harbinger QC Bar (retd.)
Harbinger dispatch is camp x-ray 'APPROVED'. When I was in the RAF we
had a pretty good relationship with the USAAF.
I can remember a conversation I had with a Stealth Bomber Pilot only
very recently, and I said to him "What are you gonna do when this damn
show's over Tiger (a playful name I had for many of the boys in
there)?"
"You can't talk to me that way" he said, "I'm a free American."
Roger J Harbinger QC Bar (retd.)
The Harbinger part 2
I want to focus this month's dispatch on the idea of the 'club'. It's not everybody's cup of tea to give their free time to a club or society. For some the idea of weekly gatherings, in-jokes, and sometimes bizarre ritual is repugnant. However, for others special interest is an
important diversion from the stresses of everyday existence.
Personally I revel in the decay that is London, and I can't bear to hear people bemoaning the grime and misery of this great city. We have a colour here. It's a sort of grimy brown. In fact (and I will digress here for a moment) there is always that worry about 'brown in town', - some say it can only be done at weekends. I remember seeing Howard Hughes striding down St James' St W1, in a three-piece fawn cavalry twill suit sometime in the late seventies. An inspirational moment for me, and I think it was a Thursday.
A club is perhaps wrongly seen as a very English endeavour. I'm not widely travelled and I can't think of any exotic examples to disabuse anybody of that idea. Let us say 'yes, the club is a very English pastime' and revel in such unity.
My own society is a secret one, and I can divulge little of what we get up to. In fact I'm not exactly sure what it is we do myself. I know that it involves assembling in my friend Sir Nicholas Blackthorn's garage, drinking Gatorade and wearing black (Society motto - NO HORSE NO WIFE NO MOUSTACHE). But darn the detail. It's that feeling I get when I'm on one
elbow propped on the chaise-lounge contemplating the society gatherings. I know I belong somewhere. In the past my 'clubs' haven't been so good.
Let me explain. Sometime back in the late Nineties I was looking for a reason. I found only beautiful women, electoral success and deep deep psychological happiness everywhere I went. This wasn't for me. I needed more torture in my life.
So, in some desperation, I decided to form a revolutionary political
party. This is a difficult pursuit. Made perilous by the interest of the secret-police, and I couldn't use a telephone or the internet to
attract potential members for fear of capture and incarceration. I advertised the Party in the local press under the classic assumed name of 'The Palmers Green Workers Gymnastics Club'. It would be necessary to carry this tag right throughout our campaign and probably to the precipice of government.
Palmers Green is a quietly uncoiling rattlesnake of revolution. Behind the twitching nets of N13 is a hotbed of unrest and deep suburban dissatisfaction. Having nothing to complain about is an unutterably crass cross to bear, and the people of this postcode are perpetually in a state of near-uprising. They needed a leader. As a community we needed more suffering. This would be at the top of the Party's platform for change.
The two inaugural members were Kirsty*, an expert on the Horse and our first Secretary for Culture, Media and Sport; and Dirk - a man of many talents. Dirk* was a confidence coach and mystic. He would be our Spokesman on Home affairs. He was a tall man from Hertfordshire (the same as me, oh! How we would talk long into the night of the flat hills of our homeland). I fell in love with Dirk. I have absolutely no intention of revealing the innermost trauma of our affair. Suffice to say that a lasting and rewarding relationship cannot be played out against a background of burgeoning revolution and social change.
I can remember Dirk's first word to me. "Why?"
Kirsty was a similar lost cause when she arrived on my doorstep. "I'm just so comfortable. I have absolutely nothing to worry about. Do you have any mats?" It's currently impossible for me to tell you any more about the Party because of the sub judice laws. Hopefully, when the court case is all done and dusted I'll be able to fill in the gaps.
It is my intention to lift the Harbinger Dispatch from a mere
journalistic endeavour in to the realms of Reportage. I'll try again next month with a report from the south-west of England and my new hobby, crop-circling. Right now I must stop, I crave the solace that George Bernard Shaw speaks of when he says 'God is alone'.
*name changed to protect the participant's identity.
important diversion from the stresses of everyday existence.
Personally I revel in the decay that is London, and I can't bear to hear people bemoaning the grime and misery of this great city. We have a colour here. It's a sort of grimy brown. In fact (and I will digress here for a moment) there is always that worry about 'brown in town', - some say it can only be done at weekends. I remember seeing Howard Hughes striding down St James' St W1, in a three-piece fawn cavalry twill suit sometime in the late seventies. An inspirational moment for me, and I think it was a Thursday.
A club is perhaps wrongly seen as a very English endeavour. I'm not widely travelled and I can't think of any exotic examples to disabuse anybody of that idea. Let us say 'yes, the club is a very English pastime' and revel in such unity.
My own society is a secret one, and I can divulge little of what we get up to. In fact I'm not exactly sure what it is we do myself. I know that it involves assembling in my friend Sir Nicholas Blackthorn's garage, drinking Gatorade and wearing black (Society motto - NO HORSE NO WIFE NO MOUSTACHE). But darn the detail. It's that feeling I get when I'm on one
elbow propped on the chaise-lounge contemplating the society gatherings. I know I belong somewhere. In the past my 'clubs' haven't been so good.
Let me explain. Sometime back in the late Nineties I was looking for a reason. I found only beautiful women, electoral success and deep deep psychological happiness everywhere I went. This wasn't for me. I needed more torture in my life.
So, in some desperation, I decided to form a revolutionary political
party. This is a difficult pursuit. Made perilous by the interest of the secret-police, and I couldn't use a telephone or the internet to
attract potential members for fear of capture and incarceration. I advertised the Party in the local press under the classic assumed name of 'The Palmers Green Workers Gymnastics Club'. It would be necessary to carry this tag right throughout our campaign and probably to the precipice of government.
Palmers Green is a quietly uncoiling rattlesnake of revolution. Behind the twitching nets of N13 is a hotbed of unrest and deep suburban dissatisfaction. Having nothing to complain about is an unutterably crass cross to bear, and the people of this postcode are perpetually in a state of near-uprising. They needed a leader. As a community we needed more suffering. This would be at the top of the Party's platform for change.
The two inaugural members were Kirsty*, an expert on the Horse and our first Secretary for Culture, Media and Sport; and Dirk - a man of many talents. Dirk* was a confidence coach and mystic. He would be our Spokesman on Home affairs. He was a tall man from Hertfordshire (the same as me, oh! How we would talk long into the night of the flat hills of our homeland). I fell in love with Dirk. I have absolutely no intention of revealing the innermost trauma of our affair. Suffice to say that a lasting and rewarding relationship cannot be played out against a background of burgeoning revolution and social change.
I can remember Dirk's first word to me. "Why?"
Kirsty was a similar lost cause when she arrived on my doorstep. "I'm just so comfortable. I have absolutely nothing to worry about. Do you have any mats?" It's currently impossible for me to tell you any more about the Party because of the sub judice laws. Hopefully, when the court case is all done and dusted I'll be able to fill in the gaps.
It is my intention to lift the Harbinger Dispatch from a mere
journalistic endeavour in to the realms of Reportage. I'll try again next month with a report from the south-west of England and my new hobby, crop-circling. Right now I must stop, I crave the solace that George Bernard Shaw speaks of when he says 'God is alone'.
*name changed to protect the participant's identity.
The Harbinger part 1
Speed Dating
Roger Harbinger investigates the new coupling phenomenon that is
speed-dating. He sends back his report:
Gentlemen,
I have to say I was nervous. Getting back out there had been a strange
obsession for me ever since my wife blew-up, and I was feeling
under-prepared and jumpy. The idea of a date, always daunting, was
complicated by the knowledge that I would be meeting ten women tonight.
This would be more than just a clammy, edgy first date ……. This was
speed-dating!!
Speed-dating is an increasingly popular way of meeting new people.
According to the party-organiser's blurb "the new way to meet compatible
singles, make new friends, and connect".
My secretary and first wife Marjorie had her usual carte blanche in
dressing me. I had on a pastel cerise pink jumper tied in a loose knot
around my neck, dress-down corduroys and, of course, the lucky white
winkle-pickers. My attitude to fashion has always been …. stay loyal to
the 'dandy look' - on average it will be somewhere in the region of
'fashionable' every fourteen years.
I made my way to the venue. It was at the Eastern end of town, a place
full of asymmetric hair-cuts. The bar was busy downstairs, but
fortunately the upstairs room had been hired for this special event.
Offered 'grass' on entering the establishment, I was quick to hush this
man. "We've had crazy-paving since 1987," I said, almost in
commiseration, and pressed on into the bar room.
The thudding bass was an insult to the senses. Considering the amazing
ease of composition allowed (and encouraged) by modern recording
technology, consumers must be wary of the right equipment falling into
the wrong hands, I thought to myself as I mounted the stairs. It would
be a relief to get into a more conducive environment. Something
altogether softer.
When I arrived upstairs, I was given a scorecard, a pen and a badge by
Herod, the party-organizer. An entrepreneur of the first-order, he began
holding these 'connexions' parties in 2002, and now demand is so high,
he holds 4 gatherings a week. After each date the idea is to mark on the
scorecard whether or not one would like to see the lady again. It seemed
a clinical way of playing with fate, and I noticed that the pens were
not unlike the cheap stubby biros one finds in a bookmakers.
My first speed-date was with Renee, a stocky French-Canadian, with the
build of a tight-head lock and the most marvellous eyes. A wonderful
blue, like lapis lazuli. She explained that she is new to London, and
that the conveyor belt of men this venture provides is eerily similar to
a dream she used to have back home in Vancouver.
"Hendrix, I believe, spent time in Vancouver." A good opening gambit I
felt. Discover origin, find common ground. I continued, "Despite our
obvious polarity; him - purple velour flairs, unkempt afro, LSD; me -
narrow cut bespoke, side parting, Laudanum. We were firm friends in late
60's Seattle". I was rambling here and I knew it, but there was so much
I had to say to her in those three minutes. She lurched away from the
table at only one minute and forty seconds. I had to show her how much I
wanted 'us' to work "I'm intending to frequent Vancouver's nudist
beaches in search of voluptuous bisexual women this summer!! Rennee!!
Darling …." But, she was gone.
I slumped back in my chair. People were staring at me, and I was
flushed. I felt immediately that I should sit up or even stand ….. tall
like a tree. But still the staring eyes. Blank looks from the blank
generation.
But in this scenario redemption is always just round the corner, for,
here in front of me, thrusting her hand in my direction, was date number
2. "Antonia" said the name badge. "Hello Antonia" said I as I grasped
her hand and shook. "Lovely to meet you, Roger" she purred. She was
extremely tall, at least a head taller than me, with a thick mane of
treacle hair down to her waist. It was happening again. I was falling
for her. Can a man stumble from one infatuation to another so quickly?
Is speed-dating healthy!?
We were still clasping each other's hands, and I was sure I felt a small
twitch of her right ring-finger against the palm of my own hand. This
set my mind racing. And as we both sat down I began to puzzle why she
should have given me that signal.
For the uninitiated, a single twitch of the right ring-finger when
shaking hands is a classic Masonic 'check'. "Are you one of us?" she
appeared to be saying to me.
"Why mix business with pleasure?" I asked.
"I'm sorry?" replied Antonia. Her brow furrowed, but she lost none of
that breathy composure. She clearly didn't want to talk about the lodge
right now; three minutes isn't long enough, I knew. And anyway, it would
keep. We small-talked for thirty five seconds, a slalom of trivia. In
this telescoped three-minute romance though, anything is possible, I
thought.
"You are fighting a liar in my heart", nerves had sprung this
unfortunate spoonerism upon me ….."lighting a fire in my heart" I
quickly countered, but our three minutes had elapsed.
A succession of nubile things came and went. I shimmied and winked my
way through them, beginning to rather enjoy myself. There was Ania,
daughter of the Polish ambassador's naval attaché, Rita from
Sawbridgeworth, Andrea with the Mohican, elfin Janette, Roy (joined the
wrong queue - but a real sweetie, we're going to see each other again)
….. I was dizzy with it all.
Chrissie was 'girl number 10', and she passed me a note telling me all
about herself, explaining that she wouldn't be talking. Her jaw was
wired - a result of an accident she'd had while water-skiing. The note
explained that without speech she was having difficulties meeting
people. I cried when I read it, but they were tears of happiness such as
you read of in books. Speed-dating was providing a real service for this
woman, and others like her.
Antonia had been my favourite. Something about her length and sheer
masculinity had appealed to me; and I was acutely aware of the whiff of
constabulary all about her. That handshake, the Doctor Marten shoes.
Police officers, and even their daughters, are great catches. They
benefit from startlingly low insurance premiums. Something screamed at
me "Never fall for them!! Remember your first fiancée, Cecelia. You
started to like her, and it all went wrong. Since you left her in
Melbourne everything's fine. Ok, Pickles doesn't get fed so often and
the Wisteria is drooping in the hanging-baskets .... but, I mean, come
on man. THEY'RE JUST A DISTRACTION".
I chose not to recall any of the ladies. As an undercover journalist, my
remit wouldn't allow further interviews with anyone present, and I stole
away from the event, innocence intact, enriched by the experience. Home
to Marjorie, a glass of Advocaat, and 'Weatherview'.
Roger J Harbinger QC Bar (retd.)
Roger Harbinger investigates the new coupling phenomenon that is
speed-dating. He sends back his report:
Gentlemen,
I have to say I was nervous. Getting back out there had been a strange
obsession for me ever since my wife blew-up, and I was feeling
under-prepared and jumpy. The idea of a date, always daunting, was
complicated by the knowledge that I would be meeting ten women tonight.
This would be more than just a clammy, edgy first date ……. This was
speed-dating!!
Speed-dating is an increasingly popular way of meeting new people.
According to the party-organiser's blurb "the new way to meet compatible
singles, make new friends, and connect".
My secretary and first wife Marjorie had her usual carte blanche in
dressing me. I had on a pastel cerise pink jumper tied in a loose knot
around my neck, dress-down corduroys and, of course, the lucky white
winkle-pickers. My attitude to fashion has always been …. stay loyal to
the 'dandy look' - on average it will be somewhere in the region of
'fashionable' every fourteen years.
I made my way to the venue. It was at the Eastern end of town, a place
full of asymmetric hair-cuts. The bar was busy downstairs, but
fortunately the upstairs room had been hired for this special event.
Offered 'grass' on entering the establishment, I was quick to hush this
man. "We've had crazy-paving since 1987," I said, almost in
commiseration, and pressed on into the bar room.
The thudding bass was an insult to the senses. Considering the amazing
ease of composition allowed (and encouraged) by modern recording
technology, consumers must be wary of the right equipment falling into
the wrong hands, I thought to myself as I mounted the stairs. It would
be a relief to get into a more conducive environment. Something
altogether softer.
When I arrived upstairs, I was given a scorecard, a pen and a badge by
Herod, the party-organizer. An entrepreneur of the first-order, he began
holding these 'connexions' parties in 2002, and now demand is so high,
he holds 4 gatherings a week. After each date the idea is to mark on the
scorecard whether or not one would like to see the lady again. It seemed
a clinical way of playing with fate, and I noticed that the pens were
not unlike the cheap stubby biros one finds in a bookmakers.
My first speed-date was with Renee, a stocky French-Canadian, with the
build of a tight-head lock and the most marvellous eyes. A wonderful
blue, like lapis lazuli. She explained that she is new to London, and
that the conveyor belt of men this venture provides is eerily similar to
a dream she used to have back home in Vancouver.
"Hendrix, I believe, spent time in Vancouver." A good opening gambit I
felt. Discover origin, find common ground. I continued, "Despite our
obvious polarity; him - purple velour flairs, unkempt afro, LSD; me -
narrow cut bespoke, side parting, Laudanum. We were firm friends in late
60's Seattle". I was rambling here and I knew it, but there was so much
I had to say to her in those three minutes. She lurched away from the
table at only one minute and forty seconds. I had to show her how much I
wanted 'us' to work "I'm intending to frequent Vancouver's nudist
beaches in search of voluptuous bisexual women this summer!! Rennee!!
Darling …." But, she was gone.
I slumped back in my chair. People were staring at me, and I was
flushed. I felt immediately that I should sit up or even stand ….. tall
like a tree. But still the staring eyes. Blank looks from the blank
generation.
But in this scenario redemption is always just round the corner, for,
here in front of me, thrusting her hand in my direction, was date number
2. "Antonia" said the name badge. "Hello Antonia" said I as I grasped
her hand and shook. "Lovely to meet you, Roger" she purred. She was
extremely tall, at least a head taller than me, with a thick mane of
treacle hair down to her waist. It was happening again. I was falling
for her. Can a man stumble from one infatuation to another so quickly?
Is speed-dating healthy!?
We were still clasping each other's hands, and I was sure I felt a small
twitch of her right ring-finger against the palm of my own hand. This
set my mind racing. And as we both sat down I began to puzzle why she
should have given me that signal.
For the uninitiated, a single twitch of the right ring-finger when
shaking hands is a classic Masonic 'check'. "Are you one of us?" she
appeared to be saying to me.
"Why mix business with pleasure?" I asked.
"I'm sorry?" replied Antonia. Her brow furrowed, but she lost none of
that breathy composure. She clearly didn't want to talk about the lodge
right now; three minutes isn't long enough, I knew. And anyway, it would
keep. We small-talked for thirty five seconds, a slalom of trivia. In
this telescoped three-minute romance though, anything is possible, I
thought.
"You are fighting a liar in my heart", nerves had sprung this
unfortunate spoonerism upon me ….."lighting a fire in my heart" I
quickly countered, but our three minutes had elapsed.
A succession of nubile things came and went. I shimmied and winked my
way through them, beginning to rather enjoy myself. There was Ania,
daughter of the Polish ambassador's naval attaché, Rita from
Sawbridgeworth, Andrea with the Mohican, elfin Janette, Roy (joined the
wrong queue - but a real sweetie, we're going to see each other again)
….. I was dizzy with it all.
Chrissie was 'girl number 10', and she passed me a note telling me all
about herself, explaining that she wouldn't be talking. Her jaw was
wired - a result of an accident she'd had while water-skiing. The note
explained that without speech she was having difficulties meeting
people. I cried when I read it, but they were tears of happiness such as
you read of in books. Speed-dating was providing a real service for this
woman, and others like her.
Antonia had been my favourite. Something about her length and sheer
masculinity had appealed to me; and I was acutely aware of the whiff of
constabulary all about her. That handshake, the Doctor Marten shoes.
Police officers, and even their daughters, are great catches. They
benefit from startlingly low insurance premiums. Something screamed at
me "Never fall for them!! Remember your first fiancée, Cecelia. You
started to like her, and it all went wrong. Since you left her in
Melbourne everything's fine. Ok, Pickles doesn't get fed so often and
the Wisteria is drooping in the hanging-baskets .... but, I mean, come
on man. THEY'RE JUST A DISTRACTION".
I chose not to recall any of the ladies. As an undercover journalist, my
remit wouldn't allow further interviews with anyone present, and I stole
away from the event, innocence intact, enriched by the experience. Home
to Marjorie, a glass of Advocaat, and 'Weatherview'.
Roger J Harbinger QC Bar (retd.)
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