Undercover at the secret society of [REDACTED]
They told me not to tell anyone. So here goes.
#21. Join a Secret Society
“When the human race learns to read the language of symbolism, a great veil will fall from the eyes of men. They will know the truth.”
Manly P. Hall, 33° Mason
The Ordo Templi Orientis. The Knights Templar. The Salvation Army.
From Apollo 11 to 9/11, secret societies have stretched their invisible tentacles wide, these secret string-pullers, changing the course of history, black hands crafting occult magick, seeding symbols around us – the compass and set-square, the black and white chessboard, the all-seeing eye – in our buildings and our institutions and our pop music videos. They are the secret craftsmen of our times, channelling the great hidden architect in the sky; as above, so below.
And my own quest for these great truths began, as all quests do - with a Zoom call.
It’s a just a social club, they said (yeah right), there’s nothing nefarious about it (sure, buddy), there’s no financial gain involved (uh-huh). They presented a PowerPoint deck – ‘Can anyone become a [REDACTED]? YES!’, read one slide. It was starting to feel less exclusive than I’d hoped. They talked about all their work doing outreach to marginalised communities; ‘we’re so diverse it’s unbelievable’. In 2023, even the lizard overlords have gone woke.
After a few calls like this, I’d seemingly passed their test and was directed to the first sacred initiation rite – an online form. I had to profess my belief in a higher power, promise to obey the law, and promise not to be joining for financial gain. The more they insisted on this point, the more I suspected and hoped there really would be financial gain. I knew, deep down, as I bought a black suit especially for my first meeting, I was about to be ushered into the occult world of ancient, mind-bending truths beyond the veil.
And so arriving there, at the retirement village’s converted bingo hall, felt somewhat deflating. The men were so old they’d probably known Solomon personally. They were a diverse bunch, from older white male doctors to older white male policemen. There was one other applicant my age, softly spoken, strangely accented, there following an ayahuasca epiphany. I never saw him again.
The sacred brothers gathered round, supped their pints, and chatted about the news of the day, complaining at length about the ULEZ emissions charge (you know ULEZ is oppressive when even our lizard overlords are affected by it). Before long, they got to it, bombarding me with occult jargon, affable but inscrutable. They asked me questions I wasn’t really prepared for – ‘What can you bring to [REDCATED]?’ (Ummm), ‘I’m sure you have a million questions’ (Oh, yes, er…). In truth, I just wanted to know the truth. My whole life I had been searching for it. I had been searching so long, I wasn’t sure I’d even know it if I saw it.
They stepped outside to deliberate. I watched them through the floor-to-ceiling glass of the waiting area as they slapped each others backs and laughed. After one minute of murmuring, they stepped back.
I was in.
Weeks later, I had my initiation ceremony. I dusted off my black suit and black shoes for the occasion, and a luminescent pair of new white gloves, like some kind of mourning snooker referee.
The sacred brothers made me remove my jewellery, my belt, and my shoes. The last time I removed all my jewellery was when I joined a masculinity cult in the woods, where I was stripped of my identity and given a new name. The [REDACTED] were doing the same thing to me here. Well, it also happens at the airport. But the airport’s not some kind of occult ritual, is it. Is it?
Reader, what follows is the ancient and secret initiation ceremony, hidden to all by an exclusive band of powerful men throughout history.
I was blindfolded. One of my [REDACTED] was [REDACTED] up to the left [REDACTED]; a [REDACTED] to my right [REDACTED]. My [REDACTED] was [REDACTED] to show my [REDACTED] (fortunately, my right nipple is the weird one). I was shepherded blindly around the room. A pointy [REDACTED] was pushed into my [REDACTED]. I was taught the secret handshake, with the [REDACTED] on the [REDACTED], and told the secret password, [REDACTED]. I already knew about [REDACTED] and [REDACTED] due to all my obsessive 9/11 research on the internet. I didn’t tell them that.
There was a mantra, and at the end – ‘If I tell anyone, I am void of moral character,’ I repeated it then, in much the same way as I am repeating it to you now. I swore not to reveal the secrets I had learned, on pain of having my throat cut. Then they took a picture for Instagram.
The ceremony was over. The gentlemen lined up to greet us, so we could practice our special new handshake. Let me tell you, I’ve never shaken so many hands as I did that night. My fingers were getting sore. Every opportunity – hello, goodbye, just popping to the toilet – was a handshake.
Brotherhood was the theme. It felt nice. It was all very jovial - It’s time for the raffle. The winner gets a bottle of Lambrini. The runner up gets two. – and I enjoyed spending the night talking to them over retirement home chicken pie (chicken soup with a crust). I made a small speech about gratitude and warmly received a card they’d all signed. Some of them had come a long way, and they were all there for my ceremony. It was beautiful.
They didn’t half bang on though. Six hours I was there. There were so many little toasts and gestures and dances and claps to learn. At the end of the evening, I was absolutely exhausted – no wonder it was in a retirement home. I was about ready for retirement myself.
On the way out, a group of pubbed-up Karens and Kevins asked me what was going on in there. I told them it was a meeting of [REDACTED]. They straightened up, stony faced. Their impression was of some shadowy cabal – as had mine been, before – and I liked that. I liked the power, liked how it felt in my hands, and vowed from that day forward to only use it for evil.
But something just wasn’t right. I’d felt awkward, out of place, at the meeting - more so than usual. And between meetings, it just got too intense. I was being texted and called constantly, especially by my sponsor, who seemed, frankly, disappointed with me, when I’d said I wouldn’t be able to go to an all-day event on a Saturday. I was inundated with letters and emails (Only 24 hours left to buy tickets!).
The final straw came when I subtly mentioned everything to my priest. Whereas I had thought being a [REDACTED] was slightly frowned upon in the Catholic church, like taking the Lord’s name in vain, or defrocking an eight-year-old choirboy, it turns out I could be excommunicated – cut off from God entirely.
Worse than that, I didn’t get any benefits. No discounts from repairmen, no big business deals, and barely any masked orgies. Really, what was the point? And what did I learn? Nothing. I didn’t learn about the Twin Towers or the moon landing or the secret Antarctica base where Jeffrey Epstein lives, no matter how many times I asked. The biggest secret of all? There is no secret. There’s nothing there. The truth, in the end, was just this: the suits, the secrets, the symbols - all of it was just another way to pretend we’re not dust in a bingo hall.
I had to leave – but I still use the handshake now and then. Sometimes I feel it in return, but how am I supposed to proceed? ‘Oh, are you a [REDACTED] too? Can you give me some money?’
Although - if you are a [REDACTED] reading this, please, please invite me to the masked orgies. Just not at the retirement home.
Reader - What do you want to know about the fraternity? Ask below.
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