The Tale of Trevor the Worshipful, his band of Renegades, and the Bar Called The Level
In the far reaches of the North East of Scotland, where the winds howled across the cliffs and the sea crashed against the rugged coast, there lay a village of great charm and mystery: Cruden Bay. It was here, in December of the year 2022, that Trevor Cooke of the Everlasting Beard ascended to the lofty title of Right Worshipful Master of Lodge St. Olaf. A man of middling height but towering ambition, Trevor saw his appointment as a chance to bring a touch of revelry and purpose to the Lodge, which had seen better days but was still strong of heart and merry of spirit.
By his side stood Josh, a sharp-witted and loyal companion who had an uncanny ability to “persuade” others into all manner of questionable yet oddly brilliant schemes. Together, they began to forge a band of loyal misfits, bound not by blood, but by shared lunacy and a love for the Lodge.
Trevor and Josh set forth into the village, seeking those with hearts bold enough and minds loose enough to join their quest. Their early recruits included Phipsy, a man of such peculiar talent that he could fix anything, provided no one asked how. With Ross, a man of impeccable military pedigree who should have known better, also in tow, they set about their business of swelling the ranks of the Lodge.
Andy soon joined them, a cheerful soul whose hearty laugh could shake the walls of any Lodge meeting. Alistair, a man whose ability to eat more curry than seemed humanly possible, signed on when he heard of the legendary “Asha’s” nights to come. Scott, Vern, and others too unique to describe (but equally absurd) filled out their ranks.
Their first great creation? The Level, a bar lovingly built in the Lodge Rooms, a space that soon became their sanctuary. Here, they listened to the oft-repeated stories of the Old Guard, particularly from Jaycee “The Winemaker,” whose tales of fermenting questionable fruits into even more questionable wines were met with raucous laughter and the occasional spitting out of drinks.
Trevor, always the visionary, sought to raise funds for the Lodge with a flair only he could muster. Despite his ever-present beard, he launched a Movember campaign with a twist: he’d grow a moustache. “But Trevor,” Josh pointed out, “you already have a beard. Isn’t that cheating?”
“Nonsense!” Trevor declared. “The people will sponsor me for the sheer audacity of it!”
And they did. With the help of Josh’s persuasive tongue and Phipsy’s elaborate and enthusiastic encouragement, they raised over £400. The moustache itself was as comical as the scheme—no different from his usual appearance, it’s only purpose veiling the knowing smile tugging at his lips.
Their curry nights at Asha’s in Peterhead became legendary. The dimly lit restaurant echoed with laughter and the clinking of pint glasses as the group feasted on curries of every spice level. Trevor routinely took on the infamous “Dragon Vindaloo,” his heroic (and sometimes tearful) triumphs becoming the stuff of legend.
One brisk spring morning, the Fellowship of the Lodge embarked on their most ambitious adventure yet: a journey to Grand Lodge in Edinburgh, and the mystical Roslyn Chapel. With Trevor navigating (“I’m quite sure this road leads somewhere interesting”), they meandered across the countryside, stopping at every inn that caught their eye.
When they finally reached Roslyn, the group stood in awe. The intricate carvings and ethereal light transported them to another world. Trevor swore he felt the spirits of ancient masons whispering to him, though the others pointed out he’d been sampling Jaycee’s wine all afternoon.
As Trevor’s reign came to an end, the Lodge gathered for a grand feast. The time had come to pass the gavel to his successor: the dwarf known as Gordon Day-Late, a man of great cheer who had earned his name for showing up to every meeting precisely ten minutes after it started.
“Gordon,” Trevor began, solemnly presenting the gavel. “May your reign be as prosperous and ludicrous as mine.”
Gordon grinned and replied, “Aye, but I’ll need to get a new battery for this feckin’ watch?”
The room erupted in laughter, and as they raised their glasses in a toast, Trevor glanced at his friends—the misfits, the schemers, the legends—and smiled. The Lodge had flourished, not just in funds or in bars built, but in the bonds of brotherhood and shared madness.
And so ended the reign of Trevor the Worshipful, but the tale of Lodge St. Olaf and its band of merry men would live on, whispered over pints at The Level for years to come.