On Achievement and the Rotarian Conspiracy
While it's nice to have one's contribution recognised, congratulation is all too often the herald of complacency. The true enthusiast in any field, be it detection or tiddly winks, has no interest in baubles. An investigator expecting his endeavours to be gratefully acknowledged is invariably disappointed: those who covet pats on the back should eschew truth-seeking for a career in voluntary work or light entertainment. it should be remembered, though, that mere popularity is no measure of a man's worth. The man of calibre is prepared to walk alone: he's not dependent on the reassurance of someone else's opinion. Show me someone who's cultivated a thousand friends and nine times out of ten I'll show you a scoundrel! Let posterity judge us! The only reward I require in the present is to go to bed with a clear conscience.
Since the inception of Drumfeld's Man of the Year award in 1998, I've been nominated on seven occasions. Spencer, enraged by any recognition he considers rightfully his, has perpetrated the myth that on each occasion I've nominated myself. This is nonsense, of course, but a how often is a lie, repeated with conviction and persistence, accepted as a truth? This week's Examiner carried an interview with Calum Livingstone, Chairman of this year's Awards Committee in which he decreed that no anonymous nominations would be accepted. As justification, passing reference was made to "a relentless self-publicist who presents himself to the world as the voice of Drumfeld." Livingstone, it should be noted, was careful not to name this " relentless self-publicist" but nobody reading the piece could have failed to realise that he was talking about Hamilton Coe.
I'm naturally disappointed that the Examiner should publish such a sly aspersion, particularly when the article omitted to mention two salient facts. The first that every Man of the Year Award since 2000 has been won by a member of the Callander and District Rotary Club, the second that the aforementioned organisation's secretary is none other than Calum Livingstone.
I'm not in the habit of blowing my trumpet. My record speaks for itself. Any reasonable person surveying the most cursory list of my accomplishments would acknowledge my contribution to society. My endeavours in the realm of investigation have been well recorded, but when future generations mention Hamilton Coe, I'm confident they'll also allude to qualities of philosophy, philanthropy and goodwill. The Rotary Club of Callander and West Perthshire, however, despite being offered leather bound dossiers and video presentations containing evidence of accomplishment, have rejected my application for membership on three separate occasions. “You're not a professional person,” explained Livingstone on the last of these, “and you've been harassing our members.” To the first of these charges, I'd respond that my purpose transcends the inconceivable, office-bound pettiness of such labelling. If however, I'm forced to argue the point, I'd contend that Billy Ure, a Round Table member for the past two years (and, co-incidentally, Mr Livingstone's sister's fiancé at the time of his induction) works at the Drumfeld Museum on a voluntary capacity. If Billy qualifies as a ‘professional' person then so does the octogenarian who welcomes me into the supermarket. The allegation of harassment is more serious: if I've ‘harassed' members of the Round Table, it's on account of criminal or anti-social activities on their part. The suggestion that my investigations have been prompted by petty motives of jealousy or resentment is offensive, not only to me, but the victims of transgression I've dedicated my life to representing.
The next time Livingstone is interviewed by the Examiner, he might be asked about links between the Rotary Club and the Sons of the Morning. This cult, formed by feckless members of the minor aristocracy alienated by Puritanism, became notorious in the seventeenth century. Their depredations ranged from the church desecration to the mutilation of livestock, offences punishable at the time by death. By the nineteenth century the group, still outlawed, had lost many of its anti-Christian associations and was primarily a networking group for well-to-do Hell-raisers. In the 1880's Francis Gibb* attempted to revive the society's former traditions, hosting black masses and initiating neophytes with 'missions'. The Whitechapel Murders of the period, wrongly associated with Freemasonry, were almost certainly linked to his offshoot of the society. When Gibb disappeared in 1890, the Sons of the Morning ceased to operate in any capacity: in 1905, however, they resurfaced in America as ‘The Rotary Club'.
* In recent years, the image of the magician has been sanitised by the sort of sentimental individuals who enjoy the company of dogs. As I write this, computer screens flicker across the country as a thousand would-be alchemists steel themselves against the dictates of nature. Liars and fantasists have always constructed alternative worlds in which their yearnings are satisfied and pasts undone. Access to previously secret rituals, however garbled or mistranslated, has now ensured that misguided individuals can summon entities to do their bidding over the internet, invariably with terrible consequences. The problem has become so sufficiently pronounced for a secret government department to monitor the activities of occultists. This concern is not as ridiculous as it sounds.
The last great period of occultism created a universal psychic imbalance that contributed toward World War One and the subsequent depredations of the 20th century. The most talented, and nefarious, practitioner of the age was Francis Gibb, who resurrected the long dormant Sons of the Morning, a society dedicated to offences against reason and propriety. A glimpse at the Sons of the Morning manifesto, written by Gibb in 1884, reveals an adolescent preoccupation with self-abuse and human waste, albeit one couched in the sort of pompous prose style familiar to anyone with a passing acquaintance of the black arts. To the sensible reader, the author comes across as a dirty minded fat-head. Colossal self confidence, however, combined with an undeniable charisma ensured the sort of attention currently enjoyed by contemporary attention seekers such as Marilyn Manson.
Home |
Glossary |
Hamilton Live |
Casebook |
Contact
