Secret Societies
It can’t be fun being in a secret society in this day and age. The glamour must be all gone.
I mean, sure, your basic secret, secret society could probably do a fairly good job of keeping a secret. I could start one right now (hello world) and we could have weekly meetings and hatch nefarious schemes and sure, it’d probably be pretty secret. But in this day of recession and bureaucratic business, it’d probably be a lot easier to hold my secret, secret meetings in, say, my living room, rather than in an underground secret den. Or maybe, if I was feeling decadent, I could try the local community centre but the disadvantage of that, is you’d have to clear out in time for yoga at 4.30 p.m.. You just can’t get the planning permission for the construction of secret vaults these days, or if you can, odds are you’re going to have to schlep out to Essex and go for that more suburban Illuminati vibe, which just isn’t want you’re looking for. I don’t know what you eat at secret society meetings, but I really feel that cupcakes and Tesco budget brand sausage rolls don’t add austere mystery to the menu.
Then there’s your secret, secret uniform. Tailor made goods are expensive, and if you tried to make your own you’re probably going to end up with a slightly KKK look, coupled with the downright truth that in this day and age, not that many people are good at making their own secret uniforms. Added to this, and you’ll find that some of the best and most reasonably priced habidashers in London, specialise in the kind of fabrics you’d use in making saris or magnificent multi-coloured African dresses that wrap around the body in leopard-spot patterns or tropical swirls. Hell, I can barely patch the embarrassments that are my trousers, let alone go for the whole hooded-cowl vibe. Also, in a society where secret society uniforms are all about masking your identity, your best bet for getting around town would probably be a surgical mask and hoodie; the paranoid teenage look, in fact.
Secret handshakes have had their image somewhat altered by gang culture; almost no one can declaim in Latin these days and can you just imagine the difficulty you’ll run into when someone gets drunk one night and starts posting all your details up on twitter?
I bring all this up, because, walking through Covent Garden a few days ago, I couldn’t help but be struck by the sheer daftness that is the Grand Lodge of the Masons, that most (ironically) famous of all secret societies. I mean, its a ridiculous building, complete with a sign on the front door to let you know you’ve got there and all the images you’d hope for from a Masonic Lodge etched into the architecture. There’s a shop across the street for selling Regalia and lets face it, should you ever find yourself invited to participate at a Masonic meeting at the Grand Lodge itself rather than, say, the local pub, your cover is really kinda blown. Modernity also seems to have bought diversification – the Lodge itself can be hired for parties and commercial events (secret vaults of doom presumably off-limits) and you can give blood there every other month in a spirit of NHS co-operation.
Make no mistake, I’m as prepared to be – if not alarmed, then certainly unimpressed – by the concept of the Masons as the next guy. It seems to be, basically, an old boy’s network, of gentlemen of a certain financial and social position who keep an eye out for each other and nudge their pals along through society. But it seems to me that so much of the world runs like this anyway – everyone’s discriminated by with or from based on a trick of speech or an accident of schooling or a geographical error of judgment – and to have to dress up in long black robes and declaim sonorously for the price of your advancement, seems like an unusually high price to pay. That said, this is a subject on which I know very little; everything I’ve read on the subject seems to be biased one way or another, and so, in lack of further information, I refer you back to my default position:
Isn’t it daft?
