Suicide And Cheese: Part 1

To whoever may read this,

Please take this as a full and frank confession.  The events that you are about to read are as true and accurate as I can recall.  Night after night of trying to erase these memories with Toilet Duck have left my recollection slightly hazy, but the main details I believe to be accurate.  I hope that this declaration never sees the light of day whilst I am still alive.

You see, dear reader, this is a story of triumph to tragedy; of morals to mortality; of prestige to pauperism.  It is the story of how I went from being an esteemed man of integrity, to the underhanded and deceitful husk I am today.  It involves an underground society that I was party to, and my shameful dismissal from which ruined my life.

The Big Cheese Society was my entire world.  The society, in simpler times, used to be known under the less gaudy moniker of Curdled Dairy Appreciators Anonymous.  That is, until a major incident in our history forced the necessary name change.  Back in the 50’s, our members used to wear yellowish-white hoods with sacred swiss cheese holes.  We then used to advance through poorer communities in order to spread the good word of cheese.  Since our group consisted mainly of part timers with lives and jobs, the rallies were conducted in the evenings to fit around employment commitments.  As such, lit torches were often carried to see in the bleakness of the night.  Unfortunately, another group who called themselves “The Klan” planned a demonstration on the same night, and the Curdled Dairy Appreciators Anonymous ended up being tarred (and feathered) with the same brush, and pricked with the same pitchfork.

After this disgrace, a young upstart in the organisation led a coup, wrestling control from the former president, changing the society’s name, and installing himself as head honcho.  His name was Herman Whiff.

Herman was a talented cheese genius in his youth.  He could identify subtle nuances in a gorgonzola that simply could not be rivalled.  His palette was more finely tuned than an autistic piano played by Exact Van Pinpoint, the famous musical perfectionist.  When I first joined the society, I had the honour of selecting a new cheese for Herman to taste, while blindfolded, to which he would guess correctly and elaborate on its age.  I chose a rather nutty Reblochon which I thought might catch him out.  Not only did he identify it correctly, he also asked for an Atlas, and drew the exact location where the nuts had been grown.  His talent was astonishing.

Sadly enough, he was also one of life’s squanderers.  He was the type of person who, if he was lost in the woods with 7 other people and he was put in charge of the food supply, he’d have scoffed the rations in a private banquet on the first night, and by morning would be mopping up the remnants of his colleagues with a slice of crusty bread.  Naturally, with all this power and talent, he soon started using his status in foolish and reckless ways.  In the early days of his reign, the drinking and lewd behaviour wasn’t quite so apparent.  However, when he tried to snort a line of blow off of the vice-president’s youngest daughter’s naked backside during a public tasting display, it became too difficult to ignore.

How I envied Herman.  I despised his fat lips, the pop-eyed, rotund, git!  As I watched him age, slowly becoming more and more haggard from the drink, drugs and brie, I started to detest every aspect of his sickening physique and behaviour.  His years of cheese consumption had left him with a waistline that would instil jealousy in a Japanese Sumo, and he had a laugh that sounded like the death rattle of a walrus that was drowning in custard.  Yet, despite these hatefully grotesque attributes, he always came out on top in any given situation.  As an esteemed member of the society, he always had his pick of the ladies.  Women seemed inexplicably drawn to him as though he existed solely on a diet of magnets.  It must have been the whole power thing that made him irresistible.

Over the years, I myself also started to garner the approval of my fellow enthusiasts.  After a particularly tough taste challenge in which I nailed Julian Kenworth 11-9 (I can’t believe he failed to identify a moist Munster!), I found myself elected into the Elites, a subgroup within the organisation who decided and voted on matters of importance to the society.  Being part of the Elite Four was not only a privilege, but it came with a £10 voucher for the cheese counter at the local supermarket.  I still have that voucher, and although that supermarket closed five years ago, I will pass it on to my grandchildren.

The Elites answered directly to the vice president who chaired the meetings, who was then underneath Herman as President.  For a few months I was content with my new position and the newfound respect that came with it.  Making the new members cower as I came towards them with the Initiation Dildo of Cheese will always be a particular highlight.  My skill in this field eventually led to my promotion to Vice President within the year, after the previous VP was fired for eating Primula cheese.  This is the most blasphemous act that can be conducted in our society!  Nevertheless, his shameful exit led to the most glorious day of my existence; the day I was sworn in as Vice President, and the vow I gave to believe in the cheese, denounce the lactose intolerant, and spit on vegans in the street.

To say I was pleased with my promotion was an understatement.  My unbridled adulation was so vibrant that I was voted “happiest man in the world” by Time magazine for that year.  Well, by Time magazine I actually mean a pull out supplement in The Tumbridge-Wells Times, but that’s close enough for me.

Unfortunately enough, my sub-reign was all too short, less than a few weeks in fact.  I was to be knocked off my ivory perch by a man more vile than an ambergris sandwich.  You can probably guess to whom I refer.