A couple of Fridays ago I woke up to discover that the people of the UK had voted for a majority conservative government. Conservative basically means- keeping things the same. The majority of people think things need to be kept the same. This day was a great day for David Cameron, fracking, nuclear warfare, fox killers, snobbery, badger killers, weirdos, energy companies, thick people, Rupert Murdoch, horrible farmers, the monarchy, the war on drugs, weirdos and many other calamities.
What is there even to do about this, what can we good people do any more? What is happening? Where am I?
Following this discovery I then realised that I had ran out of soya milk (Alpro) so I went down to the local Tesco express which I seem to spend to much of my life inside these days. Tesco is such a plastic place. The sounds that customers make and the life forms that wander around are so very juxtaposed to the creations of the rainforest, which is rich and teeming with natural diversity. Here is mostly dull people and shelves upon shelves full of plastic. Trust me, supermarkets are nothing like the rainforest.
I find shopping to be an abysmally dull experience, partly down to this big large ginger woman who often works there. She refuses to look at one’s face whilst serving one, and proceeds to invite another customer over whilst one is still mid-transaction. What is perhaps most startling about this remarkable specimen is that she does not wait for you to place your items in the designated space, alternatively she is often known to reach out with her hand and grab them from you in a small matter of swoops while you stand there unwittingly, allowing yourself to be vigorously compromised as a phlegmatic means to an end. The words she says are not real sentences, nor do they refer to a subjective experience of life or animated interpretation of it. She is large and mostly robotic.
“NEXT PLEASE”. “£6. 49 PLEASE”
Vigourous compromise, plastic bag, payment
I watch this person, and sigh, thinking ‘Why does her heart even bother to continue to beat?’. Enslaved and dehumanised by a mini-supermarket operating system. Surely not. I become flummoxed at the resilience and belligerence of this throbbing life-giver that must lurk behind that customer services badge somewhere, pumping wave of blood after wave of blood to a lifeless machine.
I often try to converse with supermarket operators, as I do with many strangers who I briefly encounter on a day to day basis. I once asked a different employee if they had tried the soya milk (Alpro) before. She politely said she hadn’t and I assured her of how nice it was and how its health benefits are all greater than that of normal milk, more protein, less fat, etc, etc. But she simply wasn’t interested, which was OK. I would certainly never even consider asking the employee I was faced with then. Because I know full well that she will never develop an interest in soya milk. Or any level of human conversation beyond hostile grunting, most likely. She provided me with a carrier bag which I reluctantly accepted because I had no bag space about my person (Later with contempt for myself I would take this bag to the cupboard at home specifically dedicated to accommodate excess carrier bags. Every day the door for this cupboard sits less comfortably as the growing plastic bulge makes the door protrude ever so slightly more every day). This lady doesn’t understand the possible consequences of her seemingly limitless and aggressive carrier bag distribution. But this is to be expected, I suppose.
I inserted my card into the receptive reader quickly and with no sense of passion. The reader received me, and when it reached its climax after I offered my pin number, the lady uttered “REMOVE YOUR CARD PLEASE”. She took my payment, and was finished with me. The transaction was over extremely quickly, and left me feeling typically unfulfilled. But on a positive note, I had plenty of cartons of Soya milk now, so all was OK.
I realised that that short paragraph could also work as a metaphor for a sexual encounter with this woman, so I naturally decided to eroticize it a bit. I hope you noticed. Even if it was a metaphor for human-on-human sex, the results would have been exactly the same. Apart from without the soya milk.
On returning home I consumed my soya milk with some Weetabix and enjoyed it every bit as much as I normally enjoy it. Then it was time to go to an exam, and instead of opening the paper up to a question which I felt like I could respond to, my exam paper depicted the face of Satan, smiling at everything evil that has ever happened or will continue to happen in the Universe. My exam didn’t go well, basically.
(To be honest though, I do think Satan gets a lot of unnecessary stick from the Christians. In the Bible and Paradise Lost all he did was defy God, and ‘brought Sin and Death’ into the world. We all love sinning, and who the fuck would dream of immortality under a tory majority? Fuck knows. What is so bad about the guy, other than his seeking of knowledge and rebelling against a tyrant who demands utter subservience or eternal punishment? Yeah you keep doing what you’re doing Satan. Good man).
Then I went to the pub with a small party and drank quite a lot. Watched Boro beat Brentford. Smoked. Cooked a couple of pizzas, and burned one of them ,which had developed a solid charcoal base with flickers of silver that looked a bit like graphite and didn’t taste very nice. The other pizza was fine and consumed by a perfectly satisfied party member. A debate occurred about how the other pizza burned. An argument was postulated by another party and was generally accepted by the majority: that the pizza was inserted into the oven with the Styrofoam base still on. Could plastic have played a role in the destruction of my pizza? I fervently dismissed this theory as nonsense, partly because of a lack of smell of burned plasticides, and partly because of a lack of plastic evidence. I was subsequently lambasted for this view by all other parties which made me feel a bit like Darwin after coming up with his Origin of Species. Then after 2 of the party left, both Styrofoam bases were discovered in the kitchen, by me and another party and my theory was proven to be correct. I expect the arrival of my face on future £20 notes, but I’m the sure the tory government won’t have it. Oh well.
But what I really discovered of value after the election was my profound love for Ray Mears- the king of bushcraft. I started watching loads of shows on Youtube, and they were incredible. Let’s talk about Ray and his potential significance following the plastic abyss that we have created for ourselves.
Ray makes it unimpregnably clear that plastic and other human bullshit is not the solution for our troubles. Ray has an affinity with almost every natural habitat you’ve ever heard of. When he heard about the tory coalition he didn’t care. He was probably in the warm confines of a bivouac in Papua New guinea, drinking tree sap and allowing the gentle morning euphony of Birds of Paradise caress his wilderness-trained ear drums. (Unlike Bear) Ray realises that we only have one creator, and it is not God, it is the wild. The wild is far more your mother than your actual mother. Spirituality for the atheist therefore comes only from a connection with what is natural, biodiversity existing in harmony. Fish that clean shark’s teeth for them, stuff like that. Ray has become a master of the wild. Ray has dedicated his life to the wild’s intricate sufferings and delights. What the fuck are we dedicating our lives to? Fabricated human constructs that mean absolutely nothing.
A lot of people are depressed these days aren’t they? I read about this in a Fisher essay possibly part of a book called Capitalist Realism which was extremely enlightening but also extremely depressing because of its content. Fisher quotes from a finding that greater depression is directly correlated to greater capitalism, explaining the sudden increase in this ‘mental illness’ in the modern world. Depression for me is the by-product of a society in which nothing is real, nothing is obtainable, and where we are forced to enslave ourselves to things that mean nothing. Things that connect us to nothing real, nothing that truly gives us a sense of identity and worth. We have rejected everything that is real in favour of plastic, literally and metaphorical. Talk to tribespeople, the only thing that ‘depresses’ them is probably our deforestation of their natural habitats. To them, happiness is not a thing, only functioning as a community and a family through respect of their natural habitats and loyalty to their predecessors is. No celebrities, no governments, no money.
I have a garden that my estate agents haven’t done anything with, so basically as far as nature is concerned, anything goes. I bet they’d fucking love to concrete over it though. I like to go there sometimes to get away from Tesco Express. So many different species have developed there; Snowdrops, blue bells, forget-me-nots, nettles, maple trees, ivy, dock-leaves, bracken, sticky weed, dandelions, that fake nettle with the white flowers that sometimes you can suck the honey out of if a bee hasn’t got there first, some strange yellow flower I can’t identify, and these all attract other wonderful life forms. I watched a bumblebee the other day for a bit. It looked lonely and sad.
Did you know this beetle is called a cockchafer and is actually native to the UK, only coming out in May times? A beautiful beetle. I used to see them a lot when I was younger. But I think they might have gone now.
Obviously being in my shit garden is the closest to nature I’ve been in a long while, but I’m going to try and make this change, and experience as much as I can over the holidays. I’m going to watch as much Ray as possible for tips on how to survive in the wild, then try and forget everything human and depressing that there is going on at the minute, and live temporarily amongst the trees with my friends, and hopefully see a badger or two.
Fuck concrete. Fuck plastic. Fuck Tesco Express. Fuck the tories.
Drink Soy. Watch Ray. Go to the rainforest.