Meeting of the Night Council

Committees meet in every town, city, village and hamlet in the land. A seemingly spontaneous gathering of inebriated individuals at local hostelries, but in fact the hands that hold the power, meting out orders and shaping the world.

It is a constitutional requirement that a bearded Scot should make up one of their number, a big-faced and bare-chested pallid Heracles. A photograph of a Scandinavian anthropologist in negative, reeking and shrieking in Caledonian tongues, only a fraction of which can be understood.

A taciturn slab of a man should be employed as secretary. A shorn head overlooking the parapets of neckfolds emerging from a polyester advertisement smock, his scalp scarred and battered like the nosecone of a space shuttle. He observes all through dead eyes.

There must also be a wiry Yorkshire Terrier of a man, with sparse moustache approaching the Mandarin and a over-amplified ability to interpret any remark as fighting talk.

The rest of the group is comprised of more bloated individuals. A pentacle of bulbous red noses, some already starting to bifurcate. They are essentially interchangeable men, speaking in transposable glottal stops of accent.

Warm pints and foam-marbled empties surround them. Pouches of Drum and Golden Vag emblazoned with pan-European health warnings lie about the table like fat, glossy pupae. The Blackberries of these statesmen of the night. It is amongst such scenes that the committee sit and exchange increasingly unusual noises until the last bell rings and a decision is made.

The next day, of course, they must wake up, be it on a sofa still damp with urine, a cold street corner or next to a forgiving spouse. But in every case, they are transformed back into small and ordinary men. It is only in orange-lit dimness of the waning afternoon that a meeting of the Night Council will be again called to order.