Tuesday, 12 November 2024

PRESIDENT CHIMP - PAPERBACK OUT NOW!

Well, ya can’t always change history, but at least you can poke fun at it…

Last time the Great Ape bluffed his way into the White House I wrote my own take on events. The manuscript gathered dust for eight years, but now, with the simian one about to strut right back into his former residence, I decided that it was time to dish the dirt and tell my tale. PRESIDENT CHIMP is out now - available at various book shops - and of course on the dreaded Amazon!  

The following excerpts will give you a taste of what to expect. I hope you enjoy it – and remember – the ape will have his day and one day the ape will fall… Godspeed that day!

Chimp excerpts:

And the people set up Chimp above them, and low they bowed to him, and seeing it to be thus, he lifteth up his foot and stampeth down upon his brethren and sistren...

...The presidential bandwagon trundled on, over-riding all protocol, all restraint and balance. Laws, standards, institutions, constitutions were shredded and trampled under its wheels. The vehicle seemed to have no brakes, no checks, no – no sense...

...His Supremely Bombastic Majesty leered at himself in the mirror. That wouldn’t be so bad, but he also insisted at leering at the entire world from every TV screen, every newspaper front-page, every computer and a numberless galaxy of phones. It was like a kind of sickness, like dogs to vomit, the slavish way in which the masses virtually invited President Chimp to walk all over them with his prehensile and tufty feet. There was something not quite right about it. It was a form of sickness, plain and simple. An abusive relationship between potentate and populace, between primate and punters.

He gazed upon the reflection of his notorious image as he primped and puffed-up his pompadour with slow, feverish abandon. His lips pouted in dour grimace of power – doubtless and resolute like a bloated Roman of the decadent age, maddened and sozzled on power, much like an alcoholic on booze.

Chimpy squeezed a dollop of banana-pulp into his hand and rubbed it into the towering yellow flag atop the juicy Citrus County orange of his head. Another big day ahead and the prez was gonna be looking goood!


...“Where’s that coffee, goddamit?” snarled the leader of the free world. The Vice President didn’t take kindly to ‘blasphemy’, as he called it, but he brought the coffee anyway. “Aren’t there any cookies to go with this fucking coffee?” blurted the vulgar ape, “where’s that so-called wife of mine?” “Er, she’s residing in New York City sir, if you recall? Why don’t I call my wife, I’ll have Carey fix us up a nice hot batch of cookies and bring them round in a basket, yes sir!” grovelled the Vice. “OK, ok,” grumbled the president, “but tell her to hurry up and stop talking like Sonny-boy, will ya?”

Pynchpenny reached for the red phone, but an apeish paw slapped his hand away. “Not that phone, fool!” barked the ape, “I’m the only one who gets to use that phone! You can use the other one.”

Pynchpenny lifted the receiver and dialled. “Hallo? Mother? Yes, hallo darling, it’s me.” The Chimp meanwhile rolled his yellowish eyes in mute, nostril agony. “Now listen Carey, I want you to rustle up an extra big batch of your best chocolate-chip cookies, dust them down in icing sugar, wrap them up in a little calico cloth, pop it into the old wicker-work basket and drop it round here to the White House. Yes, that’s right Mother, the White House!” Pynchpenny gave Chimp a weak little smile, which was returned with a surly sneer. “Yes, of course they’ll let you in Mother, I’ll tell the guys on the gate to watch out for you – yes honey-pie, now get to work and may the Lord be with you!”

The President spun round in fury and turned on the Vice. “I’m the only lord round here goddam your ass, and don’t you forget it, Pynchpenny, or you’ll be heading straight back to Indiana in a crate!” Brother Mike didn’t much like the President’s tone, truth be told, but he masked his feelings behind a sickly smile and bowed his head submissively towards the Chimp. Pynchpenny was a man who knew how to wait. Like a glacier he moved slowly and silently. You hardly noticed him moving, yet his advance could not be stopped either. He packed a certain gravity. You can see why the quiet architects of destiny had chosen him as a natural counterbalance to the bestial, foul and insane gibberings of his master, Mr Chimp. And talking of the bestial and foul, if there is one thing that is truly ugly in this world it is the sight of a reactionary and tyrannical ape, dolled-up in human clothing, ostensibly governing the USA, but in reality giving way to a tantrum of ape-ic proportions – going totally ape-shit.


“Hoo-HA hoo-HA hoo-HA!” he gibbered, frighteningly, as he bobbed up and down and bared his teeth at the Vice, who froze in horror, finding himself suddenly kicked out of his comfort-zone by a hairy and prehensile foot. “Hoo-HA hoo-HA hoo-HA!” reiterated the president of the USA, jumping up onto his desk, squatting down on his haunches, pounding the desk with clenched fists and spinning round and round, before kicking a pile of top-secret documents onto the floor and hurling an ornamental lamp against the wall.

“Mr President, please!” begged Pynchpenny, his usually cold eyes gleaming with the light of fear. It was no good – Donald Chimp was lost to his rage. His face darkened, his blood-pressure started to rise, his flesh palpitated and his lips drooled loosely. For a second, a faraway look came into his eye and he emitted a strange, high-pitched whine. Then, with a beastly howl, he hurled himself round the room, trashing and smashing, smashing and trashing as he gibbered, screamed and spat. His fury was rapid, vapid and vile. He hopped and spun round, now on two legs, now once again on four. He hurt his hand trying to punch the bronze cigar out of Churchill’s mouth. He banged his elbow on the desk and fell to the floor, trying to bite the carpet in the rare intensity of his transport of rage. He leapt up and put his fist through a two-hundred year old portrait of George Washington then vaulted over to where Pynchpenny lay huddled in a corner and started kicking him vigorously in the ribs. The Vice whimpered piteously. Seeking a new target for his wrath, the golden ape leapt across the room. There was a little cupboard in the wall and the monkey-President lunged for the handle and wrenched it open. Inside was a small black metal box with a red button on top.

The Vice-President meanwhile had risen to his knees and clocked what was going on. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead and turned to ice on his skin. The President’s finger was about two inches from the red button!

For an extremely long and agonising second, the Vice wondered what to do. Then he vaulted into action and lunged for the extra-large hospitality fruit-bowl and grabbed the centre-piece, a gigantic bunch of sweet, ripe bananas. “Hey Donald! DONALD! Over here, lookee!” He waved the banana bunch and miraculously it distracted the crazed ape and lured him away from the dreaded button.

While Donald Chimp was ecstatically ravaging his high-carbohydrate snack, the Vice slunk over to the atomic cupboard and quietly shut the door, making a mental note to himself to try to prevent future episodes of a similar nature. He would pray on the matter. Perhaps discuss it with Mother.

A disgusting slurping noise announced the continuing banana-feast and more than once Mike Pynchpenny felt the clammy slap of a banana peel round the back of his neck. Just as Chimpy-boy finished the last fruit and loomed up over the Vice, face plastered in banana-pulp, golden mane further gilded and bespattered with yellow fruit-mess, a knock was heard on the door.

“Yeah! What is it?” barked the ape. The door was held open by an apologetic-looking Rance Piebrush. “I twied to stop her, sir, but-” “Shut up Piebrush, goddam your ass! I personally ordered that food, now let her in!” Piebrush nodded a simpering leer and in walked Carey Pynchpenny, All-American, Vice-Presidential, Cookie-Bakin’ Mama with a basket of steamin’ hot cookies.

“I nearly got mugged by some big ol’ Southern gen’leman out there in the hall – but he didn’t get so much as a little ol’ crumb!” she announced breezily. “Oh that would be Sonny-boy Purview – he can’t resist a nice cookie, or any other food item for that matter, now hand over those cookies, woman!” ordered the President rudely as he grabbed them out of her hand. “Er, Donald, this is my wife, Carey….” mumbled the Vice, dejectedly. “Yeah yeah,” growled the chimp, spitting out showers of cookie crumbs, “you wanna franchise? These cookies are fucking good! You leave it to me, I’ll sort something out for ya. Leave it to me! Meantime I want a box of these cookies every day, got it?”

Carey Pynchpenny looked confused but tried to cover it with a sickly smile. “Why yes sir, thank you Mr President, sir!” “Yeah yeah, now get out, we’ve got important presidential business to see to!” replied Chimp, shoving her roughly towards the door…

...The People’s Great Leader dismissed his staff early, ordering everyone to get an early night and retired to his room with the TV guide and a six-pack of lager. Beer was one of his favourite things about the human world. He also had a fondness for those little devices that tweet out your spontaneous and uncensored thoughts - blurting them out merrily to the planet after a few cans of the fizzy brew. By the time the hangover arose to greet him in the morning, his drunken mental projections had been right round the world, printed in countless newspapers, translated into dozens of languages, discussed by scores of millions of people – and he couldn’t even remember what he’d said! Still, fuck them! he thought to himself – referring of course to those billions of world citizens who constituted what is sometimes known as ‘the 99%.’ The fact was that rather than being worried about whether he might have offended people, he not only relished offending people, but had long been psychologically addicted to it, as a compensation-mechanism for all the humiliation he’d suffered back at the Detroit Zoo. That snug little golden cage that he’d grown up in had turned him into a thoroughly rotten little spoiled monkey-boy and now this sudden elevation, not only to human status, but to the top of the human power pyramid, had gone to his be-pompadoured and flea-bitten head...

...And like an ugly parody of the butterfly that caused a hurricane by flapping its wings, the wind that whistled, tweeted and tooted from the repellent lips of the U.S. Chimp sent currents of chill and unhealthy air circulating around the globe and encouraging audacious primates in foreign states to attempt coups of their own – after all – if a demented and ridiculous ape could seize power in America, then why should not these other petty despots, long-tailed and tailless, short-furred or furry, brunette or blonde, become the ruling lords of misery in their own various assorted realms?

It was a no-brainer really, but then, have you noticed? Everything’s a bit of a no-brainer these days – isn’t it?

After the incident at Detroit Zoo, a lot of zoos around the world had wisely intensified security around their ape-enclosures - some nations had constructed systems of checks and balances specifically to prevent rogue apes and monkeys from entering government and taking on civic-duties.

Not so England – poor old England!

The general air of eternal depression and cynicism had led to a blasé attitude towards simian security at London Zoo and it does not pay to drop your guard with these wise-guys. You give them an inch and they take a mile, I mean, why couldn’t the world learn from America? Anyway, the genial and well-meaning Keeper of the Monkey-House at London Zoo had no idea that under his very nose, Bojo the Baboon was up to something…

(Historical note: Seemingly ‘Bojo’ was also occasionally known as ‘Blojo’ and also as ‘Bozo.’ These names are interchangeable and all refer to the same, eh, character.)

For a couple of days Bojo had been exhibiting rather curious behaviour for an adult male baboon. For one thing he’d put on quite a bit of weight and become a podgy, flabby thing, thick around the middle and chubby at the edges. Also, Bojo had somehow developed, almost overnight, a wonderfully thick and dense mane of unruly straw-blonde hair! This kind of thing is unsightly enough on a human, but on a baboon it is simply pretentious! It was as if the great hairy ape had the temerity, the hubris, to sprout, sport and strut the coiffure of the ruling species! Most presumptuous!

And Bojo’s voice was changing too. The usual sequence of guttural grunts, howls and whimpers had gradually changed into a sort of smarmy, upper-class, treacly accent of almost human provenance – almost like an apish take on the speech-patterns of the English ruling classes. It did not sound pretty.

Unlike President Chimp, who’d simply vaulted his way from ape-hood to manhood, it’s commonly believed that Bojo simply bought his way out of the zoo, using funds illegally diverted from Conservative Party bank accounts and, like his vile American counterpart, coolly walked into human society and just blended in. It is believed he seized power over Great Britain by similar means.

The bare fact is that even a baboon, if it can pay its own way, and pay handsomely, can not only be accepted in society but get ahead and carve out a career in power-politics. Bojo’s meteoric rise to primacy even benefited from having the overt support of none other than Donald Chimp, Ape-Boy of the Western World… Seemingly, as fellow-fans of long, yellow fruit and sharing a deep contempt for democracy, there was a lot of common ground.

The two mop-top, monkey-boy leaders shared another trait – they could continually get away with saying and also doing ridiculous things in public. Although their detractors tried to make the best of their blunders and follies, the gutter-press had a way of turning them into endearing signs of the strength of character of these preposterous, simian, interloping overlords.

In his first few crude lurches into the realm of human politics, Bojo had got himself a reputation for repeatedly attempting to burn down the toilets of posh restaurants. This showed a disturbed personality as well as a dire ignorance of physics. Any teen-age school-kid could tell you that a restaurant toilet doesn’t contain enough inflammable material to melt ceramic tiles! Still the misguided and obsessed ape kept right on reoffending and was more than once photographed with smuts of half-burnt toilet paper bespattering his well-cut jacket and famous ‘mad-professor’ hair-do, a sickly and porcine grin clinging to his over-fed chops. It did his image no harm. He knew how to play the wild-card, how to play the clown, and the punters lapped it up.

Another famous image of Britain’s most notorious baboon was offered up to posterity when poor Bojo thought he would have no trouble showing off in public by sliding along a zip-wire over a crowd of plebs. Bojo was relying on his animal-grace and wanted to put on a good show for the good old British public. What he hadn’t realized was that his time of dining in London’s – and the world’s – finest restaurants had fattened his girth and the transition from bananas to haute cuisine had left his ‘animal-grace’ far behind him. Too many juicy steaks, too many profiteroles and too many fat wedges of Stilton cheese had taken their toll and rather than dazzling the punters with his tricks on the wire, he soon ended up dangling from it, stuck fast and whimpering for help.

Ever the clown, he rolled his eyes, shrugged his shoulders and blundered on towards his next faux-pas or his next insulting public statement. Like a blob of fat, nothing seemed to stick to him…


PRESIDENT CHIMP also contains two other stories - More Of Everything is the story of someone whose attempt to enrich his life goes horribly wrong. Someone who is forced to ask himself 'at what point does enough become too much?'  Perhaps you've been there yourself? If not, now's your chance. Let me take you by the hands and lead you through the streets of Lonton.

Into The Thunderbolt Land follows the journey of an English soldier during the 1904 British invasion of Tibet. Under official instructions to gather information on Tibetan culture, the Somerset vicar's son enters a world of meditation, yoga and a profound philosophy that seems to go to the very heart of the riddle that is life. 

Pages: 164
Price: £8
ISBN: 9780993490934

Wednesday, 23 October 2024

The Horned Whale Swims Luminous

 ‘I see they’re making Melville eat his whale'

Lawrence Ferlinghetti

On Friday 18th October, 2024 I had the lugubriously ecstatic experience that I’d long awaited – I was out to launch, out to launch me book, that is… and I was indeed fortunate to have the amazing Redwing Gallery there for the ideal launch-pad. I mean, think about it – how do you launch a book? I had visions of hurling a rotund volume through the window of my local library – ya know – make a bit of a splash. Mind you I’ve never been too happy in a cell, so thought better of my original marketing strategy. How does a garret-poet, a pallid quill-driver and feverish scrivener transform himself into a slick, well-oiled hustler, punting his product in the shark-pit of virulent capitalist competitive consumerism, hmmm? Tell me that, if ye can, sitting there in your fine city clothes, swilling your martini while the help fixes you a tray of canapes?

(And talking of canned apes, I have another book, of a very simian nature in the can, waiting to be pumped into the flabby and indifferent face of a succulent humanity.) More on that later – and moron will be the operative word, if ya knows wadd I means…

Anyway, we have to live before we die. We have to dance before the sun goes down. Putting out that book meant a lot to me and perhaps the best thing of all was that people laughed at the funny bits – that was a relief and everyone had a lot of fun. The Horned Whale (a.k.a. An Morvil Kornek) was finally freed from the beach of unfinished novels and it slithered off into An Mor Atlantek, there to fin its way out into the world-mind-ocean, bouncing its eerie cetacean song off the sea-bed of the collective unconscious mind. The mind that swells with currents of thought, that storms with unquiet emotions, that seeths and surges and swells, before settling down to a glassy mirror of perfect calm – the unborn mind, original mind, mind-heart of the universe that sees and knows and reclines replete in its original nature.

Well, there’s no point in being coy about it – we’ve all got one!

I’ve included some footage of the readings, to give you a taste of Whale-meat. Wishing to conceal the main plot from yous, I avoided reading any of the main action-scenes, so what you get is probably more of an impressionistic feel of the vibe of the book. It’s quite a chubby tome, weighing in at a healthy 1 lb, 9 3/4 oz.


Originally published as an ebook in 2016, the Whale has now surfaced and put on a considerable coat of blubber – or paper, as some people prefer to call it. The longish short-story, The Janetta Stone was started back in 2009, as an episodic serial published in The Limpet newspaper. One of the poems in the book was written in the mid 1970’s when I was but a young stream of awareness, streaming through infinite space with a planet-full of writhing, awakening beings headed for the heart of the Milky Way.

Ah, those were the days!

The Kramvil, a novel in the Gothic tradition, started in a similar fashion, but this time it appeared in The Caterpillar –A Visionary Ghetto Tabloid. After a time, I realised that The Kramvil was mutating into a book, so I let the little hatchling have its way, and thus, unknowingly and quite innocently unleashed a squirming, braying and utterly appalling thing of darkness amongst an unsuspecting and undeserving populace. May God in His mercy forgive me – and may He have mercy upon my wretched soul!

During the question and answer part of the launch-evening, I was asked about the etymology of the word eldritch. To clarify further, I quote from The Concise Oxford Dictionary of English Etymology:

eldrich (sc.) pert. to elves or fairies; weird, unnatural. xvi. poss. from attrib. use of OE. *aelf-, *elfrice ‘fairy realm; (see ELF, RICH).

Readers of H.B.Lunchcart will already be familiar with the term.

Watch the debut of Luminous and reading from The Horned Whale here...

I was also very happy to launch the new musical act 'Luminous', featuring Simon Brown on guitar and me, Jeremy Schanche on Bouzouki and Baglamas. We played 3 rebetiko tunes in 9/8 and a Greek folk tune in 7/8. If I say so myself, I think it was a hot jam. 

Many thanks to Neena and Ros for helping to organize the evening and a splendid time was guaranteed for all.


The book is available from Redwing Gallery, Penzance; various other bookshops in the town, or direct from the author. Also available on Amazon



Thanks for reading and I hope whale meat again...

Thursday, 3 October 2024

The Horned Whale Paperback Out Now!


THE HORNED WHALE or An Morvil Kornek


This new anthology by Jeremy Schanche features the Gothic novel The Kramvil. Set in Newlyn, or rather ‘New Lynnsmouth’ in 1911. It features such characters as Jack Lane, Florence Place and Old Paul Hill... The tale explores the themes of pioneer aviation, romance, mystery and a scientific experiment that goes horribly wrong when the young scholar, Elias Gillpington, gets involved with the eccentric inventor Lazarus Taxon.

The short story The Janetta Stone recalls my days underground at Wheal Roots, near Wendron in the mid-seventies, as well as drawing inspiration from the time I ‘bounded’ Battery Rocks in a mineral-claim that was registered according to the ancient Stannary law-code which still survives in Cornwall.

Ghost-Hulk of a Phantom is a comic tale of a struggling writer and his misadventures in trying to get published. A collection of poems is included in The Horned Whale.

The style blends humour, mysticism and a splash of surrealism. The locations, mainly occurring around West Penwith, will be familiar to many local readers, as will the wit and wisdom of the Cornish people.

The anthology also contains nineteen poems.

Illustrated with the author’s pen and ink drawings, The Horned Whale – or An Morvil Kornek – is out now.

Buy it here!

Listen to this wonderful music by Erik Satie. I listened to this constantly as I was writing The Kramvil, and it helped inspire the atmosphere of the book.


BOOK LAUNCH

Friday 18th October, 2024 – Redwing Gallery, 32 Alverton Street, 

Penzance, Kernow - 7:30pm



Book Details:

Title: The Horned Whale or An Morvil Kornek

Author & illustrator: Jeremy Schanche

Pages: 522

Publisher: The Invertebrate Press

Distributor: Amazon

ISBN: 978-0-9934909-0-3

Price: £15

Dimensions:  5 by 8 inches  (12.7 x 20.3cm)

Weight: 1 lb, 9 3/4 oz  (.73kg)

Publication date: 30/9/2024


Genre:  Idiosyncratic...


Down Wheal Roots - looking for Old Janner...



An average day at The Invertebrate Press Office



Wednesday, 2 October 2024

Whale of a Beast - Arthur Buxtereide interviewed by Ripley Porter of The Penwithershins Gazette

 In the 2nd October issue of The Penwithershins Gazette was an interview with Arthur Buxtereide, conducted by Ripley Porter, Arts Editor: 

RP: Arthur, without giving too much away, would you like to tell us about your new book, which is titled Whale of a Beast? 

AB: Certainly Rip. It concerns some monstrous goings on in West Cornwall, some years back. The sea plays a large part in it. It’s a mystery/romance, written as a non-linear adventure in linguistics. 

RP: Sounds intriguing! Any car-chases in it? 

AB: Sadly not, but the book’s not out for three weeks, I could put one in if you like. 

RP: That’s very considerate of you, Arthur, but I’m sure the book is better without any input from me! So it’s out in three weeks, you say? 

AB: Yes. October 18th. Published by Reid, Warbler. 

RP: And is it your first book? 

AB: That’s right, my first. Before becoming an author I used to install and inspect fire-escapes, mostly commercial premises, but occasionally somewhere really unusual. In fact, it was when I was installing a fire-escape on a lighthouse that I first got the idea to start writing. It was the sea, being around it on a daily basis, I found it naturally inspired me to start stringing words together, so it started from there. 

RP: Quite a journey – from commercial fire-security solutions to Dadaist novel/poems, isn’t it? 

AB: These things happen Ripley. 

RP: Have you always lived in Cornwall? 

AB: My childhood and youth I spent here. I studied philosophy at the Camborne School of Minds. During the fire escape years I was based in Dulwich. I felt I was wasting time though, I needed a more fulfilling life, a way of, I know it’s a cliche, but a way of expressing myself. 

RP: So you moved back to the west-country to become a writer? 

AB: That’s it exactly. 

RP: Now I have to say that I’ve read the book Arthur, and it’s not exactly an easy read, is it? I mean, it’s studded with foreign words, Cornish words, a lot of apparently made-up words, long passages of free-floating word-association and stream-of-consciousness surrealism, dream-imagery… I mean, let’s be honest, the average punter is going to be totally flummoxed by this, don’t you think? 

AB: Well, sure, it’s not for everybody perhaps, but I think it’ll have its audience, given time. Also, I think it’s good for readers to stretch themselves, challenge themselves a bit sometimes. There’s always a fundamental choice for any writer, any artist in any media – are you going to be yourself or are you going to pander to fashion and shape your product according to a populist concept of how a book should be, or how a film or song or pair of trousers should be? Anyway, my book’s not really all that surreal. It’s got plenty of romance for the girls and adventure for the boys, even if it hasn’t got a car-chase! 

RP: Why did you decide to sprinkle the text with Cornish words? 

AB: Because Kernewek or the Cornish language is the key to a much deeper poetic understanding of the place and the people. I regard it as a magical touchstone, the door to another realm, a cultural missing link that is loaded with information. Poetically, it has a unique sound and resonance, and to me, certain words of Cornish have a talismanic power, a power to enchant. 

RP: Should I ask which ones? 

AB: Let’s just say they’re in the book! 

RP: Well, thank you very much Arthur Buxtereide for talking to me today. It’s always a pleasure to meet a local celebrity, a local success-story. I hope the book’s a best-seller! Available October 18th, published by Reid, Warbler, it’s Whale of a Beast by Arthur Buxtereide. 



Monday, 12 April 2021

Adventures Close To Home

  
Under the quixotic realization that the motor-car constitutes a ghastly death-threat to our dear world I accompanied my eighty-four year-old mother to the symbolic temple of this auto-destruction and there we did exercise our right to protest. Little did we know the swinish hornet’s nest that would soon swirl about us and bespatter the tarmac with words of hatred, threats of violence and death and acts of menace and intimidation directed at us by ye Public of this - England, our England.

The film starts with footage from a street-demo in Penzance organized by a youth-group protesting at the path being taken straight towards environmental melt-down. This was a good natured affair, sunny and trouble-free. Characters visible include my mother, the former Member of Parliament Andrew George and a cadre of XR coming to check on my spontaneous discussion with our camera-lady, Diane; nervously hoping that I would ‘toe the party line’. Perhaps he found my goose-grass wig unsettling.

A little short of three minutes in, we suddenly jump a couple of weeks forward in time to 13th April, 2019, a day of freezing wind and zero support as we walked out to the garage for a curious hybrid version of no pasaran at the Not-OK-Corral. The action had been announced within our local Extinction Rebellion group for some weeks, together with a request for legal-observers. In the end, the only help we got was from a friend with a camera, so at least we’d have a form of witness, a piece of evidence to support our case. Our intention was pure and simple – to get arrested. This would lead to a court-room appearance at which there would be an opportunity to make a grand speech and grab some strong publicity for our humble cause of trying to save the ol’ planet from immanent destruction at the hands of the poisonous mechanism that chokes, envenoms and slowly kills off this joyous and miraculous globe – this radiant oasis of life in the depths of cold space. They gotta let you have your say in court, whoever you are, and I was hoping to ram the environmental crisis into the face of Babylon for all I was worth.

When dreaming up our plan of action I imagined that somewhere between five and ten minutes of brazenly obstructing incoming traffic at the local garage would suffice to see us bundled into the wagon and hauled off to Camborne. The preliminary action on the forecourt was merely bait to draw the cops. These folks had other ideas though and had no intention of promoting our little revolution, knowing that the so-called International Rebellion was going off in London in two days’ time.

The little clip of existing film of the action, lasting around two and a quarter minutes, captures something of the atmosphere out there on that windy day, but the actual event took an entire hour to unfold. What happened after the film ends was a third ultra-hostile motorist of the scarlet-necked variety, giving out the threats and insults; getting surrounded by a mob of garage and café workers all yapping at me at once and even one or two gestures of support from motorists.

I wrote about these events shortly after they happened, but as two years have passed – and as I have also found the lost footage – I thought it was worth taking another look at the ‘garage-incident’. I can laugh about it now – at the time it took two or three days to get rid of the slightly polluted and razzled sensations arising from the adventure. Also, the whole thing took on a slightly dark shadow due to the reaction of the XR ‘leadership’ which ranged from horror to condemnation – there was no recognition from them of any value in our action, yet there were not, and to my knowledge never have been any direct actions undertaken locally by the group whatsoever – despite dozens of members claiming to be fully prepared for such engagement in the ecological struggle for survival.

Of all the protests I have ever experienced, this one was by far the most intense, the most menacing, the most sinister. I agonized as to whether or not I should ‘let’ my mother be a part of such a thing – ultimately coming to see that it was her political right to participate, if she so insisted, and that I did not have the right to refuse her cooperation. Without at least one companion in the field I might not have continued with the action. Also, until the last minute, we were expecting some participation from our brothers and sisters in the movement.

The way it played out, the two of us decided that we would act, whether or not anyone would join us. Once having made that decision, the whole psychic drive was forward. There wasn’t any idea of abandoning what we considered to be the right and necessary thing to do. Later we got a lot of criticism from the group over the action, people seemed incredulous that we went through with it. The thing is that when you psyche yourself up for an intense experience you have to be serious in your intention. If doubt takes hold, vacillation will wreck the operation. There was a powerful sense of ‘no-going-back’. We wanted to get arrested, not spend an hour in the freezing wind, risking getting mowed down, cursed and reviled, thinking ‘when are those cops going to get here?’ Kind of ironic really. We literally couldn’t get arrested. There’s humour in the chaos – and as the CCTV footage from the garage cameras and also the ones on the cops jackets would show – there was chaos aplenty.

The point about it all though is the intention, the motivation. We were trying to bring awareness of the worst crisis this world has ever faced – of the sickness of our planet due to man’s blindness and greed – our willingness to cling to a shallow culture of consumption and ‘convenience’ even as it drives the living world towards an ugly and inexcusable doom.

REMIDIATION SOUGHT:

If you are a driver, please plant and raise one tree for every year you have driven your car. This will go some way towards reabsorbing your emissions. Think of the future.

* * * * * * *

"By going against the established behaviour-pattern of these other primates I was violating an unwritten code of the somnambulists – never challenge the basic reality – never try to wake the dreamers – they will turn and rend ye –"  This quote comes from my original article written the day after the event. You can read the whole thing here.

Why I Joined Extinction Rebellion.

Why I Left Extinction Rebellion.

Why I Hate Fast Cars

Friday, 12 June 2020

Follow @real Donald Chimp on Twitter for latest President Chimp news!

The true life-story of PRESIDENT CHIMP is out now, on Smashwords, Apple and many other outlets.

The Leader Speaks:

OK. Alright. Let’s see. Yes. Good people. Great team! Never trust those lying enemies of the people, the so-called FAKE NEWS journalists, terrible people, terrible people. Really bad people. Rubber bullets for them! Tear-gas for them, I say! Really terrible people these fake-news media. That’s why I always use Twitter and you can now follow me: @realDonaldChimp – that’s right ‘cause I am the one and only real Donald Chimp – GOT ME?
OK hom saps, now lis’en up, ok? Don’t trust those lying liberal sewers – I’m talking about The Akron Klaxon. I’m talking about The Buffalo Bugle. You know who you are. You know who you are, The Limpet, Pravda and The New York Times. Enemies of the people. So follow Real Donald Chimp if you wanna get the latest Presidential news straight from the Chimp’s mouth.  Got me? OK.
Ananuddating. You better tell all your so-called liberal friends to start following me on Twitter too, got me? A-HOO-ha HOO-ha HOO-ha ha ha ha!


Yeah well I ain’t got time to sit around here listening to you liberal, soft-on-crime, unpatriotic losers anymore so just do what I say and I’ll keep the dogs on the leash – for now – you bunch of whining, left-leaning intellectuals!  


Alright now let’s get on with ignoring this so-called ‘fake-virus’ which has hardly killed any Americans at all and get this stinking capitalist-pig-circus back on the road – shall we? Goddam your ass!




His Latest Tweet: