Dear Fallyraggers, it was about this time last year I wrote to you on the rather delusional matter of the Bilderberg Group. A top secret meeting of the world’s most powerful people, which is held once a year at various locations around the globe. Well it will, no doubt, come as no surprise to you that my rather mediocre prodding hasn’t blown the doors wide open. It passed by, once more and quite happily, at the beginning of June. (See Charlie Skelton’s excellent blog for more details.)  

Yours faithfully,

                The Editor

P.S. One thought has come to mind. It feels like a simple, neigh, more elegant solution to what might be happening behind those closed doors. I mean these leaked memos talking about “financial reform”, “Pakistan” and “global cooling” all seem a little misleading to me. I just can’t believe the repetition of global financial models need to be planned and reiterated yearly; not unless they’re actually drawing straws on who’s taking the hit next. No, these politicians, these bankers, CEOs and media mongrels, yes, all of them, they’re simply there to trip some balls.

Picture the scene. The conference room, far from being a clinical over-sized office, is adorned with great multi-coloured drapes, swinging romantically down from the tall ceiling. Scatter cushions and huge, green, velvet bean-bags , adorned with purple patterns of elaborately ornate eyes contained in triangles, cover the red carpeted floor. Hundreds of chaise longues ride only a few inches from the ground and each has a hookah stood proudly next to it. This conference room is a place where, for four days, the rich and powerful can get away from it all and indulge themselves in a little hedonism.

Young boys wander around in loin clothes, filling up goblets of wine from huge amphorae and rendering any service the delegates desire. A ‘lurid exposé’ of an atmosphere persists as merry-making begets merry-making and, whilst the hundred or so protestors are kept at rest some X miles away, the delegates unwind and relinquish all the worry they bring on the world. The helicopters patrolling the skies, the police at every junction and on every street, the name-taking, photo deleting, holding, wrestling and arresting; this could be the price of money men on holiday.

Holiday? This is surely wrong. Having a “holiday” is something the worker bees do (in some countries at least,) surely not the all-powerful? No, of course not, their tastes are grander, older, ancient indeed, perhaps even Eleusinian in nature. There must be ceremony befitting the rulers of planet Earth. There must be a sacrament worthy of the loftiness of their highdom. There must a big ole’ bottle of LSD, 350µg, dished out by a beautiful Goddess, great Demeter herself covered in poppies, pipetting her way around the hall on a Saturday night.

Then, when the delegates are deep in their beatific visions, they’re able to see the world as it actually is… perfect in every respect. They experience the Oneness of all; the vast unimaginable power of infinity and the tiny nothingness they are in comparison. Then, when they wake the following day, they’re reassured of their blamelessness in the face of what only appears to be a world of suffering and injustice. How could it be any other way in their perfect, beatific universe?