prevent the deserts spreading across the whole globe; the forces that keep the ice caps from melting and drowning us all.
It’s all connections. If dung beetles didn’t eat cow shit, we’d be knee-deep in flies by now. Eating cow shit is a dirty job, but somebody’s got to do it. Luckily, either by divine plan or cosmic coincidence, at the dawn of creation the dung beetle said, ‘Oh, for God’s sake, I’ll eat the cow shit, if no one else will.’ But the dung beetle, like all other forms of life, depends on all other forms of life. From micro-organisms to Great White whales, it’s a chain. Break that chain and all the money in the world will not save you from the ecological Armageddon that will engulf us all. So, what was to be done?
They were coming to that, they had a solution. They’d been working on it for a while. Everyone had a part to play, including Sly.
‘Mr Moorcock,’ said Slampacker, leaning back in his chair, ‘I’d like to tell you, if I may, about the Stark Conspiracy.’
36: LOVE AMONG THE RADICALS
D uring the meal at Slampackers, such as it was, CD told Rachel about the film he had thought they might go and see. As a preliminary to establishing his character as an active peace campaigner, he had chosen a movie he’d read about recently in a groovy-ish mag. At the time he had marked it down as the sort of film which he would rather be forced to eat than watch, but in the present circumstances it suited his purpose…
‘It’s about the parallels between the way men run countries and the way they run their personal lives. I mean, the parallel between pricks and missiles is a bit laboured these days but I suppose maybe that’s because it’s true.’ CD was desperately hoping that Rachel had not read the review he’d read. She hadn’t, and he would have been gratified to know that she was thinking that he seemed an interesting sort of bloke, a bit intense maybe, but a cut above the usual dag.
In this respect at least, CD’s plan was working. Rachel had always been a bit of a closet radical — she liked the feeling of talking about something that mattered. And so they finished their delicious Slampackers, except for the horrible bit of gherkin which they had both fished out, and went to the movie. As they had both suspected, it was well meaning but bloody awful. Its principles were presented with such horrible monolithic certainty that it would have turned Ghandi pro nuke. Afterwards the director gave a short speech. He did this after every performance of the two-week run at the little arts cinema. ‘Some people,’ the director said with what he believed to be a knowing smile, ‘can’t see that missiles are penis extensions. Oh yeah? Well I don’t know what’s going to come flying towards us when some man pushes the button but it certainly won’t be a fifty-foot flying cunt.’ This, the director considered, was not only a brilliant and conclusive point but also a hilarious joke and his personal favourite. Although, in fact, he would not have known a joke if he had found one hanging off his earring.
‘I think he was being cynical. You know, talking like an idiot in order to make an astute point,’ said CD putting on a brave face. He would have put pink icing and a cherry on it if he had thought it would get him any closer to Rachel’s affections.
‘I think he was talking like an idiot because he is an idiot,’ replied Rachel. And CD, who agreed with her entirely, had to think about cold porridge and vinegar for five minutes to stop his monumental desire becoming too obvious.
37: RADICALLY INEFFECTUAL
I n the weeks that followed they went to a benefit concert together, and a discussion group, and looked around the community bookshop and generally became a recognized feature of alternative haunts. All the time with CD anxiously impressing on Rachel what a committed, worthwhile individual he was. He need not have tried so hard. She liked him, it was his mates that annoyed
It’s all connections. If dung beetles didn’t eat cow shit, we’d be knee-deep in flies by now. Eating cow shit is a dirty job, but somebody’s got to do it. Luckily, either by divine plan or cosmic coincidence, at the dawn of creation the dung beetle said, ‘Oh, for God’s sake, I’ll eat the cow shit, if no one else will.’ But the dung beetle, like all other forms of life, depends on all other forms of life. From micro-organisms to Great White whales, it’s a chain. Break that chain and all the money in the world will not save you from the ecological Armageddon that will engulf us all. So, what was to be done?
They were coming to that, they had a solution. They’d been working on it for a while. Everyone had a part to play, including Sly.
‘Mr Moorcock,’ said Slampacker, leaning back in his chair, ‘I’d like to tell you, if I may, about the Stark Conspiracy.’
36: LOVE AMONG THE RADICALS
D uring the meal at Slampackers, such as it was, CD told Rachel about the film he had thought they might go and see. As a preliminary to establishing his character as an active peace campaigner, he had chosen a movie he’d read about recently in a groovy-ish mag. At the time he had marked it down as the sort of film which he would rather be forced to eat than watch, but in the present circumstances it suited his purpose…
‘It’s about the parallels between the way men run countries and the way they run their personal lives. I mean, the parallel between pricks and missiles is a bit laboured these days but I suppose maybe that’s because it’s true.’ CD was desperately hoping that Rachel had not read the review he’d read. She hadn’t, and he would have been gratified to know that she was thinking that he seemed an interesting sort of bloke, a bit intense maybe, but a cut above the usual dag.
In this respect at least, CD’s plan was working. Rachel had always been a bit of a closet radical — she liked the feeling of talking about something that mattered. And so they finished their delicious Slampackers, except for the horrible bit of gherkin which they had both fished out, and went to the movie. As they had both suspected, it was well meaning but bloody awful. Its principles were presented with such horrible monolithic certainty that it would have turned Ghandi pro nuke. Afterwards the director gave a short speech. He did this after every performance of the two-week run at the little arts cinema. ‘Some people,’ the director said with what he believed to be a knowing smile, ‘can’t see that missiles are penis extensions. Oh yeah? Well I don’t know what’s going to come flying towards us when some man pushes the button but it certainly won’t be a fifty-foot flying cunt.’ This, the director considered, was not only a brilliant and conclusive point but also a hilarious joke and his personal favourite. Although, in fact, he would not have known a joke if he had found one hanging off his earring.
‘I think he was being cynical. You know, talking like an idiot in order to make an astute point,’ said CD putting on a brave face. He would have put pink icing and a cherry on it if he had thought it would get him any closer to Rachel’s affections.
‘I think he was talking like an idiot because he is an idiot,’ replied Rachel. And CD, who agreed with her entirely, had to think about cold porridge and vinegar for five minutes to stop his monumental desire becoming too obvious.
37: RADICALLY INEFFECTUAL
I n the weeks that followed they went to a benefit concert together, and a discussion group, and looked around the community bookshop and generally became a recognized feature of alternative haunts. All the time with CD anxiously impressing on Rachel what a committed, worthwhile individual he was. He need not have tried so hard. She liked him, it was his mates that annoyed
Similar Books
