On this night of the 3rd of October 2019, a group of people gathered at 8 this evening. A gathering not unlike a cult, every member continually droning on and on at their families about the values and wonder of worshipping the M.A.N.U. (Man Affordable Not Unkind). Well, I say every, some are curiously reserved in their sharing of our Thursday activities... Presumably simply afraid that if too many ask for the benedictions of our leader, the grace of the latter will falter...

I digress, falter the leader did not tonight! We gathered at 8, as I was saying, for the annual cult administrative themed game night. Something about re-electing stuff and things...
I mainly remember three things:

  1. There was a weird Bingo game where instead of being the first to complete a row of numbers, one had to be the first to complete ones whole grid of words... Except everyone had the same grid, and of course not ALL the words were spoken... I mean our esteemed Olivier (cult necronomicon guardian) chose the words! What did people expect...
  2. I was asked to start writing again! The poor sheep, lost without their English host. Like all good parasites I have become a writhing mass of inescapable necessity. So at least where that cult agenda is concerned: Check!
  3. As I started musing on the food I had not yet consumed this evening, and my future works of literature for the cult, I heard whisperings. "Magna Carta..." They sounded like to me. And indeed I eventually received a piece of paper demanding personal information about me. Most demanded by the powers that be was our age. I am guessing some kind of strange sacrifice will be taking place. Where persons of a certain age will be sent in the cupboard to "make room" in the cult. I will be immensely sad to see some of our glorious members depart. As we say often though " Alea iacta est" or in modern terms "Don't roll a 1"...



John, oct. 2019 John, alias Superman, is back !

As is customary after pleasing the gods of paperwork we turned to our pleasure time. I shared mine with Bertrand, Cecile and Elsa. Now some would say Bertrand beat me at the game. I would say "Ye wee bugger stole me cards all game!". Thus our game of Overbooked, a game all about positioning victims in seats in a plane in a way to assure... I think the easier feeding of Cthulhu ? A giant octopus was outside my plane so I imagine it was some kind of apocalyptic simulation... So a little peeved at the thieving taking place at the table, it was non the less with a little pride that I had my hopes destroyed. Ending third place having saved 2 babies from the sacrificial flight. And confusing a granny for a lover in my seating arrangement. The negative points accrued in my disfavour.

Remains to write a warning to people that are like me already afraid of air travel to not read the previous paragraph, and of course as is customary, to wish you all a wonderful week until our next game!