Sticky in Westminster

It’s been a hot day in London and I’ve not much to say… except my buttocks are very sore and I stink of honey.

As inaugurations go, The British Thong Society’s had to be one of the strangest to involve me, my underwear, and esoteric ritual. But more of that later. For the moment, I just want to say that we’re back in our hotel room, where I am now posting this via the marvels of my local wireless hotspot.

Gabby’s going slightly crazy, of course, as she’s one of the unfortunate few who can detect wireless. I understand it’s also killing all the bees, which H.G. Wells once prophesied as a sign that the world’s coming to an end. Can’t say I’ve noticed. I’ve been bothered by the damn things since midday… but, as I said, more about that in a minute. I better hurry up posting this as I won’t be able to be on the PC long. I visited The Blog Power awards a few minutes ago and Gabby tried to hit me with a miniature vodka from the mini-bar across the room.

I wouldn’t mind but yesterday began well enough. We enjoyed a quiet drive down from Bangor to London and arrived at two thirty. We left the flat in the care of Monica, who agreed to prolong her stay a few more days to keep the place safe, though what counts as safe in Monica's eyes really doesn't bear scrutiny. I left Gabby unpacking at the hotel at four and made my way into Westminster.

The British Thong Society (or the BTS as we members call it) sits on St. Anne’s Gate in an old building that you’d probably walk past assuming it’s the home of some city lawyer. I love old buildings but those that sit a little back from the street have a special appeal. They’re the sort of places that give you the impression that they’d prefer it if you didn’t visit them and respect their privacy.

I had only paused a moment outside to take a look of the place before a porter came rushing out. He had recognised me from my pictures and almost bounced down the steps to pay his respects. I helped him up as he began to kiss my feet and I told him there and then that the Chipster’s first act as president will be to cut out all the fawning. I run a friendly ship and the BTS will be just that: a comradeship of thongdom.

Inside, the place has the typical decor of a London club: plenty of woods from South America, quality carpets from the east, but a tangible air of breeding which is wholly British. In the foyer, I was met by the vice-chairman, Mr. Barnacle, who led me straight to the committee room where I had to sign some forms before the actual ceremonial began at eight. It was pretty involved, full of small legal script and long legal words. For instance, I had to sign over my image rights to the association. But I figure that my image rights won’t ever be worth a thing unless I begin to expand my boundaries. There are plenty of people in London alone that don’t know of the Chipster, and I imagine that there are even more who haven’t heard of thongs.

By the time we'd finished and had a drink and something to eat, it was nearly seven o'clock and time to put on my the ceremonial gowns. They were full of gold thread and heavy stitching. Think of a vice-chancellor at a university and you’ll have the right idea. If you also imagine that the VC isn’t wearing any pants but for a gold hand-stitched thong, then it will be like you were in the room with me.

At eight, I was led into the main hall. The place was staggeringly beautiful They'd blacked out all the windows for the occasion and the hall was lit by lines of candles. There must have been close to two hundred people in there, all dressed in white and purple gowns, and all wearing some of the oldest thongs imaginable. There were Turkish thongs of the seventeenth century, Baverian string thongs, the so-called Eagle thong with its hook nosed pouch. English thongs mixed with French thongs, and from the far East came thongs made from the finest of silk for the Chinese emperors. Any thong lover would have been at home, gazing at the variety of crotches, but I had work to do.

I was guided up to the dais at the front of the auditorium and two attendants stepped forward to take my gown from me. I might have been stripping for years but I felt oddly naked standing there. Next, a young lady walked up to me with a bucket in her hand with a large silver paint brush in the other. I didn’t understand what she was doing when she began to paint me with some sticky substance but as she began to plaster it over my face, I could taste sweet honey. When she’d finished, another young lady came up and threw a handful of raisins at me. Naturally they stuck to me. Then she emptied her other hand which was full of oats. An older man came up next and threw two handfuls of mixed nuts at me, finely chopped of course. I might have muttered to the vice-chairman a joke about my enjoying my morning Alpen but he was as solemn as anything and didn’t see the funny side of it.

Covered in oats, fruit, nuts, and honey, I was next tied up by the ankles by a large rope that hung from the ceiling. I didn’t like the look of this but it all happened so quickly, I couldn’t do a thing about it. One moment I’m wondering if it would be a bad show to eat some of the raisins and the next I’m swinging freely from the rafters, scatting honey and nuts to the crowd.

Only after the whole thing was over did I discover that the ritual symbolised the freedom of the genitals before the birth of the thong. The fruits, oaks, nuts and honey are the foods of the forest which signify the bounty of those that live life naturally and who appreciate the natural harmony to be found in wearing the thong.

Not that any of this would have made any sense to me as I was swing in midair, high above the congregation. And I could do little but bit my lip to stop myself screaming as they all began to beat me across the buttocks with switches. It wasn’t too bad after the first fifteen minutes, though I was relieved when I was suddenly wrapped in a huge canvas cloth, suspended from more roles, that appeared from nowhere.

This, I was told, was the symbolic birth of the thong and I lay snugly in the fold of an enormous pouch as they lowered me to the ground.

And that was pretty much the end of the ritual. I spent the rest of the night mixing with the members, listening to their complaints and ideas about the running of the society, and otherwise shmoozing with the upper echelons of the country’s thong wearers until every one of us were drunk to an inch of full capacity. To say I felt at home would be an understatement. I felt like I was wearing the country’s biggest posing pouch.

And that, as they say, was my evening. I got in around four o’clock this morning and have slept until two. We’ll be driving back to Bangor this evening, though I can’t say I look forward to four hours sitting on these cheeks of mine. For something that was supposed to be purely ceremonial, some of those people put too much elbow into the thrashing they gave me. However, I return to Bangor officially the President of the British Thong Society. And I hereby make all who leave comments on my blog or link to me (or at linked to in my blogroll), honorary members of the BTS.

So the next time you need to buy underwear: remember that you're a member and think of the thong.