For those in the W.S.C.




Great stirrings in the former Soviet Union, where we are delighted to learn that the craze for Writer Worship Clubs is beginning to catch on, with a unique twist. Whereas British groups favour fiction writers such as Virginia Woolf and Irvine Welsh (and of course, our divine WS), our Russian comrades have made philosophers the objects of their adulation. Not for them, the watered-down likes of Alain de Botton – our Cossack cousins feast of the works of Hegel, Wittgenstein and Theodor Adorno, spending the long Siberian nights writing endless manifestos and debating the structural transformation of the public sphere between neat shots of Stolichnaya vodka.

Unfortunately, as is so common in that benighted land, what started out as innocent fun soon took a turn for the macabre. We began to hear dark mutterings of turf wars and drive-by shootings. Fearing an official crackdown if the problem continued to escalate, Commissars representing the major faith groups met to discuss a truce. Unfortunately, after 15 or 16 vodkas, a disagreement broke out between the traditionalists from the Cult of Kantianism, who argued for a series of categorical imperatives to be adopted by all the faith groups, and a rowdy delegation from the Foucault Faith, who countered that the Kantians’ insistence on fixed meaning, and privileging of a meta-linguistic standpoint, had been rendered redundant by the writings of Derrida.

Clearly, the Kantians could not take such inflammatory rhetoric lying down, and challenged the Foucaultians to a duel. Subsequent accounts of what follows have been contested, but what is undeniable is that as the smoke cleared, the senior Kantian commissar was lying dead on the bar-room floor, shot through the heart. Police involvement was now inevitable, and the Philosopher Groups have gone underground, communicating only through cryptic messages carved into the bark of trees in remote areas.

It is our sincere hope that the Russian Philosophy Groups can put their differences behind them and live in harmony, free from the threat of state repression. If we in the WSC can peacefully co-exist with the despised Amis Faith (the odd heretic-burning aside), then surely there is hope for any seemingly opposed author cults. The WSC is a shining beacon of hope in a depraved world. Praise be to Will.

Today’s bulletin was posted by The Venerable Grand Quiddity Master(T.C.)



We are delighted to make a thrilling announcement. In January 2013, our Grand Elected Knight of the Ur-Bororo attended a WSC orgy and participated in the traditional orgiastic rites, involving much absinthe and several torn up copies of Dorian.

Business as usual, some might say - just another typical night for the WSC. However, within a few weeks our Grand Elected Knight of the Ur-Bororo noticed that she was feeling out of sorts. Bizarre cravings afflicted her. She suffered the urge to read thrillers, even though she normally loathed their black covers with lettering in shiny silver fonts, hated their contrived plot twists, their neatly concluded endings. She went to the Doctors, who confirmed that she was pregnant. The cravings were nothing to worry about, they informed her, and would quickly wear off. Indeed, over the next 9 weeks, she suffered a myriad of unexpected literary thirsts, ranging from Amis (we forgive her, though we feared at the time that the baby might be damaged), to Alan Titchmarsh.

Two nights ago, she went into labour. The WSC gathered around the hospital bed; the Dodo began nibbling the bed in excitement. When the Doctor announced that they were 'complications', the Dodo's coos became wails of anguish. The Grand Elected Knight of the Ur-Bororo needed a Caesarean. Oh, how we prayed for her, how ardently we begged for everything to go smoothly! The WSC waited, white-faced, black-cloaked, sipping on inferior absinthe bought from the hospital vending machine (it smelt suspiciously like bleach to us). The Doctor emerged. He announced at the Grand Elected Knight of the Ur-Bororo had given birth to a 350-page novel. Those who were expected a female novel with a pink cover managed to hide their dismay when they discovered that it was a male, with a picture of a knife on the front cover. All plotlines and characters appeared to be in good working order. Now we are waiting for our Grand Elected Knight to come up with a good name, but we wait in patience, for we realise that titles are never easy.

On this note of birthed novels, we would like to add that if you are currently lacking in Vitamin C, you might like to bite into the exceedingly orange cover of the brand new paperback edition of The Quiddity of Will Self. Whilst some members savagely object to the revelations of the WSC that the 'novel' gives away, others eagerly pray that you might buy so that the royalties can be donated to the WSC. Buy 1 copy and a WSC member will be able to afford 1/50 of a cloak. Buy 2 and a WSC will be able to take a sip of absinthe.

Today's bulletin was posted by the Sovereign Grand Quiddity Inspector General (S.M.)




Today's News Update focuses on the WSC's much loved pet Dodo. Our Dodo was born in a laboratory in Berlin and shipped to London in 2004. His name is Dampfschifffahrtgesellschaftsdirektorsstellvertretersgemahlin.Calling a Dodo Dampfschifffahrtgesellschaftsdirektorsstellvertretersgemahlin is, of course, as cliché as calling a dog Fido. Indeed, the Dodo asked to be called Schwarzwälderkirschtortenlieferantenhut, but sadly, he simply didn't look like a Schwarzwälderkirschtortenlieferantenhut and the name lasted only a few stuttering, uncomfortable hours before everyone resorted back to Dampfschifffahrtgesellschaftsdirektorsstellvertretersgemahlin in relief.

Dampfschifffahrtgesellschaftsdirektorsstellvertretersgemahlin has had a troubled time adapting to life in England. He likes to spend his days in the garden of the WSC's Soho haunt, snuffling for bulbs, roots and grubs, occasionally breaking off to deliver his 2-note, pigeon-like call, Doo-doo, Doo-doo. His appearance caused something of a stir in the avian world. The birds of London are notoriously territorial. Matters were not helped when Dampfschifffahrtgesellschaftsdirektorsstellvertretersgemahlin asked what 'those lovely blue birds that danced on the fence' were called and, on hearing that they were called 'blue tits' let slip a dirty chuckle. Swallows sneered at him; blackbirds swore; thrushes defecated on him; robins ignored him entirely. Dampfschifffahrtgesellschaftsdirektorsstellvertretersgemahlin became depressed. His coos ceased. He sat in his pink birdbath, smoking Ernte 23s, reading his way through the works of Ernest Becker and John Gray. He became prone to making scathing, random remarks about homo sapiens being 'just another species' and pointed out that they are most prone to excusing themselves with the cliché but I'm only human when they are most guilty of behaving like animals. An avian psychiatrist attributed his pain to Post Extinction Trauma and diagnosed a Lazarus Complex. A prescription of antidepressants failed to heal his greying mental state - until, one sweet day in summer, he broke off from reading Denial Of Death to listen to an exquisite coo. He looked up and saw a fat grey pigeon waddling along the fence. It was love at first sight.

It was the avian equivalent ofRomeo and Juliet. A Dodo and pigeon, both from the Raphinae family, both sporting beaks with distinctive keratinous tips and yet! - so different in height, in plumage, in literary tastes (the pigeon being a fan of the novels of Alan Titchmarsh). Dampfschifffahrtgesellschaftsdirektorsstellvertretersgemahlin also had considerable trouble pronouncing the pigeon's name, Jim, which caused some awkward moments in the nuptials of their wedding ceremony. To this day,the WSC remain proudly fond of Jim and Dampfschifffahrtgesellschaftsdirektorsstellvertretersgemahlin,who are now honeymooning in Hampstead. We are sure that their conjoining does not involve the slightest wing's hint of any Bad Sex.

Today's bulletin was posted by the Sovereign Grand Quiddity Inspector General (S.M.)



The minutes of the latest meeting of the Grand Masters of the WSC are currently being typed up on a battered Olivetti by the Selfian Secretary. The SS is drunk, so spelling mistakes may be unavoidable. The minutes will be posted within the next 3 working days. For those of you who are so enslaved by anticipation that you intend to sit and stare at your screen, refreshing every 5-10 seconds until the said minutes appear, we would like to advise that you to remain hydrated and that, if any serious problems occur, you visit your GP (taking your laptop with you, of course (we also advise that you check in advance if the surgey has WiFi (we also suggest that if your GP attempts to fob you off with weary accusations of hypercondria that you weep, shuffle your feet and request to be sectioned where Wi Fi access may be superior))).

Today's bulletin was posted by the Grand Elected Knight of the Ur-Bororo (K.L.)



Divino Afflante Selfian, dear neophytes!

Recently, The Daily Beast interviewed two members of the WSC, our Sovereign Grand Quiddity Inspector General, and our Master of Psychogeography ( a result of this, the WSC was thrilled to discover a subsequent listing on the Factnet website, which offers 'resources and support for the recovery from the Coercive Practises of cults and Religions'. We do, doubt, however, whether ex-members can ever recover from expulsion from the WSC. They find themselves adrift; they become lonesome figures who trudge through the streets, cloaks fluttering dejectedly behind them; they shut themselves away with texts of Self and bottles of absinthe,sobbing and wishing they could defect to the Amis Faith but knowing their hearts will never allow such a conversion. Breakdowns are inevitable.

On that cheerful note, the WSC is also pleased to report that we have now recovered from our failed bid to buy Battersea Power Station and turn it into a temple. Now we have a new objective. Nay, more than objective. A goal! Nay, more than a goal. A vision! A grand and great vision for a Will Self Club Faith School. Picture this educational utopia. All children, aged 11 to 18, will have to wear dark uniforms and cloaks, rather than coats, will be compulsory. Assemblies will be macabre. School vouchers will given for free milk and heroin. The Book of Dave will be our Bible. We will throw out the texts on the National Curriculum, Wuthering Heights, and Hamlet and the like, and introduce My Ideaof Fun and Great Apes. Any children showing signs of struggle in that awkward journey through adolescence will be sent to the therapist in residence: Dr Bushner. Those aged 18 and upwards will be allowed to conduct their own Selfian Initiations and Orgies; 'A' grades will be rewarded with bottles of absinthe. This fine experiment will undoubtedly produce children who are definitely and defiantly...interesting. We are confident that high marks will ensue, prizes will be won, Oxbridge places seized. Ultimately, our pupils will end up in government. Then: the WSC takes over Parliament. Then: the World.

Today's bulletin was posted by the Sovereign Grand Quiddity Inspector General (S.M.)



It is a sad day for Selfians. It appears that our bid to buy Battersea Power Station and turn it into a temple has failed - well, so we assume from the lack of response from Boris Johnson. We have included the main thrust of our bid below...

"Dear Mr Johnson,

Firstly, we would like to congratulate you on enjoying another term as the illustrious Lord Mayor of London. Secondly, we felt urged to write to you about an issue which concerns us greatly: the sale of Battersea Power Station.

We are aware that a number of rivals have bid for the property, including the Wellcome Trust charity, Olympic village developers Delancey, Hong Kong's Hutchison Whampoa and the Chelsea Football Club. We cannot express in words how relieved we were when we heard the news that you and your Chief of Staff, Sir Edward Lister, had doubts about Chelsea's proposals.Indeed, we interpreted as a sign of divine intervention, a celestial clearing of opposition in order to support the destiny of the Will Self Club (WSC).

It has been reported that Battersea Power Station is expected to sell for £300million or more. The WSC would like to join the bidders, but we should preface this by forewarning that £300 million is somewhat beyond the budget of the WSC.(Please understand that we are a cult that depends entirely on donations andthe yearly running costs of cloaks, absinthe and copies of Self's novels, which are frequently ripped up during our Initiation rites, exceed our current income). We would therefore like to bid for the Station for the sum of £138.46.We are conscious that the closing date for bids was 4 May but we would like to plead for your sympathy and generous understanding regarding our late bid. It was our earnest intention to submit a bid on time, but an Initiation Ceremony was conducted the eve before the deadline and we have only since recovered from our absinthe-induced hangovers.

 Our vision for Battersea Power Station is a profound one. We wish to turn the station into a temple for the Will Self Club. Although we have been accused of being an elitist organisation, we would like to assert that we welcome neophytes of all genders and faiths. The community of Battersea would be welcome to join, providing that they are willing to invest in a cloak, read a tleast half a dozen novels by Mr Self and undergo Initiation Rites, which involve absinthe, a coffin and, at times, a debauched orgy which writhes on a bed of torn-up Selfian texts. We are appealing to the government in the hope they will offer grants to those unable to afford a cloak, for nylon will not suffice andthey must be cut from velveteen cloth, of a plum, navy or black hue. 

We pledge that to maintain and restore the four iconic chimneys and wash towers along with the Grade II listed west turbine hall and control room. One of the chimneys will be used for the slaughtering of blasphemers (ie those who opt for the novels of Amis rather than Self), another as a prayer and contemplation room for those who desire to sit and quietly read our deified leader in a proper Selfian shrine. Whilst we may plaster the Art Deco walls with a montage of Self's photos and his book covers, we promise that we will attempt to keep our artwork in keeping with the original look of thebuilding.

As you can see, our vision is great and grand. We would thus like to entreat you to join the WSC and give us the opportunity to realise our dream of establishing a grand temple dedicated to the worship of Will Self.


Yours sincerely


TheGrand Masters of

The Will Self Club


Today's bulletin was posted by the Sovereign Grand Quiddity Inspector General (S.M.)




It began with a book. A dog-eared, crimpled book that we found in the corduroy briefcase of our Chevalier of the Fat Controller (also known as S.S., a journalist on a London broadsheet). Our Knight of the Cock and the Bull happened to notice that,as the CFC drew out his cloak from the said briefcase, beneath it flashed the cover of 'Money'. 'Money', as many of you neophytes will know, is not a novelby Will Self. 'Money' is - horror of horrors - a novel by Martin Amis.

This sin was noted and duly recorded in the WSC's black book (which also details the minutes of our thrice-annual meetings and our expenditure on cloaks and peacocks). We did not wish to make the mistake that other religions make; many Christians, for example, are far more enchanted by repelling Satan than attracting God. So we did not reprimand him. We accepted his need to read the Enemy without comment. When we heard, however, that he was attending a lecture given by Amis himself, a tremor fissured through the WSC. We knew that things were amis. Our cloaks and minds were ruffled.

Several of our Grand Masters offered to accompany the Chevalier of the Fat Controller to the lecture. He initially refused our help, but after a heated discussion, he finally agreed to some spiritual chaperones. Upon entering the lecture, he sat casually at the back at first, but within minutes his resolve had brokenand he fled to the front row, where he sat at the feet of Amis. It was akin to the moment where Jesus stood in the desert, being tempted by his Nemesis, where Ram came face to face with Ravina. Unfortunately, however, whilst Jesus was smart enough to resist turning stones in bread, or throw himself down from the holy temple, or accept Satan's offer of a number of lands, our Chevalier Fat Controller was clearly lost. After the lecture, he broke down and confessed everything. We treated him with utmost sympathy, giving him our love and tender understanding. Then we shot him. Applications for the position of Chevalier of the Fat Controller have been received and will be discussed at our next thrice annual meeting.

Today's bulletin was posted by the Grand Elected Knight of the Ur-Bororo (K.L.)





As promised, here are some exclusive photographs of our members. Maybe the mystery of their identities be laid bare!


The Sovereign Grand Quiddity Inspector General:


And the Sublime Knight of Willcentricity (left) with the Knight of the Cock and Bull:

We hope that these extraordinary images satisfy your curiosity.


Today's bulletin was posted by the Sovereign Grand Quiddity Inspector General (S.M.)



Recent enquiries to the Will Self Club website have bemoaned the fact that the identities of the upper echelons of our hiearchy remain obscure. In response to this lament, we have agree to post two photographs on this New Bulletin at the weekend - that of our Sovereign Grand Quiddity Inspector General and that of our Master of Pyschogeography. They are currently in a pulpae stage in our dark room, though colours and shocking images are slowly emerging...

In preparation for these photographs, one should always bear in mind that - in the great words of Will Self - "It was Cocteau who said that all writers are hermaphroditic".


Today's bulletin was posted by the Master (D.M.)



Art once drew its inspiration from religion, lovingly rendering images of Angels and Saints on canvas and across church walls. Now art has become a substitute for religion. Religious enquiry, the urge to understand what it is to be human and our relationship with the world around us, and to define what is Truth, has manifested in different guises in different cultures throughout the ages. During the last one hundred years, our interest in the supernatural, the mysterious, the irrational, ridiculed and repressed with the dominance of Science and rationalism, has been displacedinto the Arts. During the 1960s, as church attendance began to significantly fall, a new generation worshipped - with a feverish, Bacchanalian hysteria -the Beatles and indeed made them bigger than Jesus. Star Wars,with its philosophies largely borrowed from Joseph Campbell and the Vedas, spawned the Jedi religion. Readers have queued for hours through the night for the new HarryPotter or Murakami with the zeal that once accompanied the birth of a boy in a stable, whilst empty churches have been converted into shopping malls and pederast priests have been vilified. We no longer need to observe miracles in our modern age, for we have CGI and the NHS. We do, however, still need to continue to ask the fundamental questions that seekers have asked themselve sover the centuries, for the invention of 3-D glasses and the ipad have not quenched our thirst for a deeper understanding of our soul. The question of what is it to be human is the natural philosophical arena of any seriou sauthor. Thus, we can find enlightenment through art, salvation through our writers.


Today's bulletin was posted by the Sublime Knight of Willcentricity (J.H.)




Followers of the WSC do not need to ask the question 'Does(our) God exist'? One only has to visit a branch of Waterstones and seek out the 'S' section, or attend a debate on Psychogeography, to attain definite proof of his existence. Some religious followers of various faiths are intent on attributing their worst flaws to their Creator, feeling that, if they are made in his Image, they are cracked reflections. The WSC, however, celebrates W.Self for his sesquipedalian prose, his satire, his piercing wit, hiscoruscating attacks on Richard Littlejohn, the Olympic Games and the arms trade. As Will himself has said of his role as a novelist: "I don't write fiction for people to identify with and I don't write a picture of the world they can recognise. I write to astonish people." What more could one ask for in a literary deity? In short, Will will not gaze down on you and give you an uneasy feeling whilst you masturbate. Will has better things to do.


Today's bulletin was posted by the Master (D.M.)




Every religion must tell a good story. We all require narratives in order to make sense of life: personal narratives, and panoramic narratives, so that we may understand the beginning, the middle, and the end of the world. We are born in media res -as coined by Frank Kermode's seminal essay,The Sense of an Ending.Whether we are an atheist who declares that the world was flung together by accident, or a Christian who argues that the world was moulded like divine plasticine, whether we believe that the world will end with global warming, or with the Rapture, we need to believe that we are in a time of transition,heading towards to an end - and when the end of the world does not come, and the predictions are proved false, we simply recalculate, reconfigure and rewrite our narratives. Since one needs a narrative to live by, it therefore makes logical sense to worship a fine storyteller. For the followers of the WSC, our Apocalypse is clear: we are engaged in a mass suicide pact, to be enacted the day that Will Self passes away.

Today's bulletin was posted by the Sublime Knight of Willcentricity (J.H.)



There are many reasons to dislikeThe Da Vinci Code, from its minus 1-dimensional characters to its poor prose style, particularly the author's predilection for italicised words- at first seemingly for emphasis, and then increasingly at random, until one feels that he is suffering from a toolbar Tourettes syndrome. Nay, the greatest sin of this novel is its false knowledge, its assertion that Leonardo Da Vinci was a member of the Priory of Sion, when in fact he was a member of the Priory of Self. In fact, the WSC existed long before the Masons, Knights of the Round Table &c, many of which took their dress codes, customs, ceremonies and elitist prejudices from the WSC. Distinguished members throughout history have included Plato, Schopenhauer, Lewis Carroll and Dylan Evans. As for his wrongful analysis of the hidden message in Leonardo Da Vinci's 'Last Supper' - allow us to enlighten you. Kindly examine the painting below. The Da Vinci Code asserts that a 'V' shape is formed by the bodily positions of Jesus and Mary, and that 'V' is the symbol for the sacred feminine. But rest your eyes on the length of wall that sprouts up in the middle of the 'V' and suddenly one sees the truth: the letter is not a 'V' but a sacred W...


Today's bulletin was posted by the Sovereign Grand Quiddity Inspector General (S.M.) 


Just as Christians appreciate listening to the harmonious, floral tones of Gregorian Chanting, followers of the WSC like to listen to Will's sterorous voice featuring on '5ml Barrel' on the album 'Clear' by 'Bomb The Bass'. We suggest that, if you wish to become a neophyte, you listen to this track several times a day, with your eyes closed, in a state of deep contemplation. Thus:

Today's bulletin was posted by the Sovereign Grand Quiddity Inspector General (S.M.) 


"Do you accept the Wafer, the Wafer of Will?"


The Wafer of Will, chewed by neophytes during their Initiation ceremonies, are small, translucent squares, patterned with pictures of Will Self's face. One should not take the Wafer lightly - either philosophically, or digestively. If your soul has surrendered to Will, the Wafer fills it with light; if your soul is wary, the Wafer will pierce and pummel it. You may well ask - how are the Wafers made? A page is ripped from each of Will's novels and laid in a bath of water. Homeopathy - which was inspired by the WSC's technique - adopts a similar method, whereby a dilution of a dilution of a dilution creates a concentrate, a solution that has essential traces of Selfian quiddity, ofCock & Bull,of Stockwell, of heated disagreements with Amis. This solution is then gently cooked and the semen of a peacock which has masturbated is dispensed, droplet by droplet into it, until a clear liquid forms. It is then drank by the Sublime Knight of Willcentricity, whose role within the WSC is to act as a purification vessel for the Wafers. He takes it into his body, and spends 24 hours in prayer, before urinating the solution through his left ear. This liquid is poured over a sheet of Wafers until they have fully absorbed it. The Will Self faces are not, as some believe, stamped onto the Wafers by any human mechanism. Just as people have sometimes had the joy of seeing the face of Jesus in a shroud, some clouds, or a Toastie, so the image of Will's face spontaneously appears, in perfect, beautiful form, on each Wafer. The Wafers are then stored in black glass jars, ready to be given to the neophytes.

 Today's bulletin was posted by the Sublime Knight of Willcentricity (J.H.)


 Anyone for a game of Cluedo...?


Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, Valhalla, Jannah...? It is, of course, a question that all followers in the Will Self Club have to face sooner or later: what happens to us when we shuffle off this mortal coil? Selfian followers, of course, are statistically likely to die younger than their contemporaries. Indeed, mortal coils are not shuffled off, but ripped away in ecstatic agony. Death may come through excessive consumption of absinthe during the Initiation Ceremonies; or death may come through leaving the organisation and the inevitable assassination that will follow (we consider this to be a kinder approach than the Scientologists, whom have been known to alledgedly slander those who leave them - better to die cleanly, with your reputation untarnished within the WSC). Fortunately, we need not suffer any fear. Will Self's How the Dead Live tells all we need to know about our afterlife: There aren't any 'people in charge of death'. When you die you move to another part of London, that's all there is to it. Goodbye Brixton; hello Mayfair. 

Or, more accurately Dulston, which is where the soul of Lily Bloom heads after she dies from cancer in How The Dead Live. She is accompanied by her Aboriginal spirit guide Phar Lap Jones, Rude Boy, her dead 9 year old son, and a lithopedion foetus. It is one of Self's best books and should be placed by the deathbed of any ailing member, so that they may take it with them to the afterlife as a useful guide.

Today's bulletin was posted by the Sovereign Grand Quiddity Inspector General (S.M.) 


Woe! Alas!

Recently we were saddened, nay shocked to discover that details of the hierarchical structure of the W.S.C. (which has, of course, been widely imitated by the Masons, the Illuminati and other illustrious Brotherhoods) were leaked by an Ex-member. He previously held the position of Selfian Secretary and goes by the Inititals of S.E. (note that, in our generosity, we will not stoop to name and shame him). Though we are considering libel action, we also pray for the salvation of his soul, now in the limbo of an De-Selfian torment.

Since such details have been disclosed on other websites, we have realised that we have no choice but to announce them formally, in order to correct their mistakes (we can assure the public that there is certainly no position as puerile and absurd as The Grand Penis of the Selfian Pillar).

Hence, the official list:

Neophyte (of which there are be many)
Secret Master
Selfian Secretary
Master Elect of Psychogeography
Sublime Knight of Willcentricity
Knight of the Cock and of the Bull
Venerable Grand Quiddity Master
Patriarch Selfachite
Chevalier of the Fat Controller
Grand Commander of the WSC Temple
Grand Elected Knight of Ur-Bororo
Grand Inspector Inquisitor of the Tough Tough Toys for Tough Tough Boys
Grand Elected Knight of the Grey Area
Sublime Prince of the Great Apes
Sovereign Grand Quiddity Inspector General

Today's bulletin was posted by the Sublime Prince of the Great Apes (D.E.)


We are all aware of the newspaper reports detailing the more insidious side of Writely Religious. The 'Lecter After School Club' ate the brains of their geography master; the infamous 'Christie' murders were carried out by a group of elderly Yorkshire women who decided to play a game of And Then There Were None by lacing their homemade plum jam with arsenic and feeding it to their husbands. Nevertheless, it must be acknowledged that many of these Faiths have enriched the lives of their followers, offering spiritual redemption, healing, and even miracles.

The W.S.C. is dedicated to a purity of faith and rigorous devotion to the Self. The recent reports detailing the disappearance of S.M. (who was never granted neophyte status) are inaccurate and at worst, libellous.

Today's bulletin was posted by the Sovereign Grand Quiddity Inspector General (S.M.)