The Sunday Soapbox – 1

T’was another day at The Bunker. Fresh OJ, last night’s kebab and a couple of non-fair trade grapefruit, looking at the sun. Another day, another 24 hours closer to death.

Whoa, there, man, don’t get ahead of yourself, good morning, star shine and all that. Barring a few pessimistic thoughts and another amusing set of columns in The Sunday Times, it was a sunday like no other.

But then my assistant and fiancée, Ximena, opened the door, splintering it in one swift kick.

‘It’s on the news all over again!’

I grab the remote and get Mojo Jojo on. Freewire is the essence of freedom, baby, and a telly with such a sweet nickname is ambrosia bathed in nectar, eh?

Ah, there it was, as plain as Tesco’s bread, it was Orestes. The Undead Cow, as his previous owner called him. The Madman/Madwoman/Madit was over it again, throwing photocopies of the Virgin Mary from an electricity pylon in Scunthorpe.

‘That’s unbelievable!’ I muttered.
‘Yes, who’d thought we’d see in our lifetimes electricity in Lincolnshire?’

For 40 minutes, we continued to see the show. It was deranged, depraved and totally conceptual in itself. How would the local police deal with such maniacs? Were we in order to see another Waco, only slightly bloodier? And what about the media? Would the have a field day with this? Could they make a television drama about this, with Robert Carlyle and Andy Williams’ bastard son as Orestes and the chief of police? Will Steven Moffatt produce?

I could see it: special edition DVDs on HMV, Facebook groups, hash tags in twitter… It was the perfect representation of the Zeitgeist. A consume/trash/recycle generation mesmerised by the ramblings of a madman and by flying (photocopies of) Virgin Maries.

Not on my watch. I grabbed Ximena and we jumped into the Fiat Punto. I stepped into it, avoiding the Madness-1 (M1) and drove all the way to Chichester. Then I asked for directions and went to Cornwall. After two lines of coke, a proper cornish pasty and a few mescaline fun stamps, I stopped the car near a cliff.

‘This is the road to Scunthorpe?” asked Ximena.
‘Roads?’ I said, ‘Where we are going, we don’t need…roads!’.
‘Oh, right, it’s Lincolnshire!”

I stepped on the petrol and drove right into the Atlantic Ocean. Our bodies were recovered by a Japanese tuna ship and we got packed on tins of dolphin friendly tuna. Which begs the question: is it tuna that contains no dolphins or was it tuna that was mates with dolphins?

And if so, how long, OH LORD, how long ’til our bottlenosed friends REVOLT and RISE against us, in an orgy of blood, guts and shredded Jeremy Clarkson articles?

Booyah. Happy Memorial Day, cheese munchers.

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