Wildlife (26 page)

‘There it is,' cries Ian, his cock helicoptering. ‘We were owed, says our friend from the First World War. And, in 1933, while Hitler came to power in Germany, in England, we were building large hotels, hosting seaside beauty competitions, building large piers out into the sea. Who remembers holidaying in 1933?'

The crowd are much more at ease. They are animated.

‘It was a bit better,' says the old man from the nineteenth century. ‘Depressions aside, my interwar holidays were much more like it, you know, nearer the money.'

‘Great,' cries Ian, ‘then came the Second World War. Who survived that?'

‘We did!' shout the guests in unison. ‘We did!'

‘And how did you feel?'

‘Pissed off,' cries the woman who earlier had spewed into a hat.

‘No,' says her husband, turning on her, ‘don't you remember, darling, we were just bored. Really bored.'

‘I was still angry,' says the man with accidental eyes. ‘I felt I was owed again. I'd seen enough shit. I was owed.'

‘And here in England,' says Ian from the podium, ‘the Welfare State was founded. And by the 1950s, the consumer society was up and running. Dare I ask about your holidays?'

‘They were dirtier,' cries a skinny man maniacally. ‘My sex got dirtier. I got a blow job in 1953, in Rhyl.'

‘Brilliant,' says Ian. ‘Now answer me these questions: Who, during the nineteenth century, used to hold their noses because it stank so bad?'

‘We did!' shout the guests.

‘Who was angry and in need of fun after the First World War?'

‘We were!'

‘Who was angry and in need of fun after the Second World War?'

‘We were!'

‘Who used to work like a fucker in a factory?'

‘We did!'

‘Who used to go to church?'

‘We did!'

‘Now tell me,' cries the dickhead, ‘who enjoyed the final decades of the twentieth century?'

The guests inhale, they're about to cry ‘WE DID!' in unison but then their brains engage, their eyes blink and they all start babbling in quieter, less certain tones. It's impossible to tell what each of them is saying. They sound like a rabble. Each guest has turned to the person next to them and is regaling them with what seem like anecdotes. Occasionally, some of them rub their thumb against their fingers to suggest ‘cash' or ‘I earned a lot of cash'. Sometimes they point at themselves and shrug in a rather self-satisfied manner. Others in the crowd appear to hold regrets or to have experienced despair during those decades. They lean on the table with their heads in their hands. They shake their sad, elderly faces as if to say, ‘It didn't quite happen for me.' Some seem to be talking about computers and other pieces of technology, they can be seen tapping on invisible keyboards or switching on invisible appliances and then shrugging, as if to say, ‘It's as easy as that.'

From the stage, Ian the Dickhead brings the crowd to quiet with broad gestures of his arms.

‘Yes,' he says. ‘It's been a complex period for many of us, I dare say. But culture brought us together, to some extent at least. I mean, who could fail to enjoy the music of the Beatles or the many images of Madonna? Who could be anything but very aroused by the body of Marilyn Monroe or Pamela Anderson, and who couldn't be made to laugh by the comedy of Laurel and Hardy? Who wasn't scared by the literature of Stephen King, or excited by the
football of Diego Maradona or moved by the great acting of Robert De Niro, or, dare I say it, Marlon Brando himself?

‘But in the Wild World, and this is crucial, we will not be united in our admiration for such great men and women, no, no. In the Wild World there will be no entertainment as we understand it today. Instead, there will be personalities so wild and crazy and imaginative that, to feel happy and overjoyed, those that succeed us here on earth will simply have to close their eyes and think of themselves.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, so much nonsense has been spoken about the Wild World. Let me put all the rumours to bed. The Wild World is the end of evolution. The Wild World is a revolution of species. The time is almost upon us. Soon we will cease to lament that the humans are behaving like robots. We will celebrate the fact that robots are behaving like humans. And, inevitably, after the celebrations are over, it will then be time for the human being to take its bow and retreat from the stage. It's simple really. When robots become cool and totally convincing, how and why will we humans motivate ourselves to go on living? We won't, will we? No, of course we won't. Why would we?'

The elderly guests nod understanding. They all look a little tired on account of all the shouting and excitement of a few minutes ago.

‘The Wild World is inevitable,' Ian the Dickhead continues. ‘I see signs that the revolution is coming in the behaviour of our young. Their human instinct to survive is causing them to try everything they possibly can to appear interesting. They are feverishly buying clothes, piercing their tongues and nipples, acquiring sharp knives, going for teenage boob jobs, painting their faces, scouring the
Internet for a rare band or two. They do all this in the hope that they might be able to blend in when the Wild World comes. This process has been accelerating since the 1950s. Youth culture is, broadly speaking, our final attempt to justify our species, to keep it from extinction. But it's getting out of control, such is our desperation to survive. I dare say many of you have marvelled at the sophisticated appearances of young people in recent years. There is, I'm sure you'll agree, barely a child over the age of ten whose haircut and hair colour doesn't contain a great deal of charisma and meaning. Be the children shaved or dyed, they are discovering the importance of having a wild personality. Talk to anyone in the teaching profession here in England and you'll find that most kids are incapable of concentration. Many don't understand the concept of
general
knowledge or the relevance of sitting in large groups and all receiving the same information. It seems weird to them. They don't get it. They wonder what the point is. The past is boring, they say. Their sense of themselves goes even further. Look at television. Even given the numerous new channels, to most young people television programmes seem too broad, too boring, too tame and irrelevant. They are more happy when at home, talking online. Many children are finding happiness in talking about themselves for hours on the Internet, often to strangers. They are so full of themselves, it breaks my heart. They are brimming. They talk with such enthusiasm about themselves, about what they're really like, deep down, about what they think, how they shag, how they laugh, how they kill, how they feel and about how fascinating they are. But all this effort is futile. It is, as I say, simply the final murmur of human evolution, the last flex of the survival muscle and, sadly, it will not be enough. Let
me assure you, when the revolution comes, we will not last long, even a man like me with a film star's penis on my forehead, or the babes with beach-ball breasts, or the kids with neon-lined eyes and highly complex musical tastes. No, no amount of tattoos can save us. No amount of new shoes, plastic surgery or gang affiliations. The fact is, none of us will seem insane enough when the revolution comes.' Ian bats the penis with the tips of his fingers and smiles as it swings like a pendulum above his eyes. His smile dies young: ‘No,' he says. ‘I'm afraid that when the world becomes wild, there's not a human on earth that will seem interesting enough to survive.'

Ian placed unnatural emphasis on the word ‘survive'. It was clearly a cue; the moment he said it the sound of the orchestra came again from the speakers. Another slow, foreboding crescendo.

‘Today's special guests, the people you're about to meet, ladies and gentlemen, were all recently built in buildings. And, my God, I must say, we had a good time building them, let me tell you. The atmosphere was incredibly funny, very creative. The banter between us all was brilliant as we filled each of them to the brim with jet-black blood. These people are, in effect, archetypes of the Wild World. They represent precisely the kind of creatures we can expect to see in the future. In the future, ladies and gentlemen, these crazy people will stride around the world. They will replace us. Why? you might ask. Well, they will replace us because in this way –' Ian the Dickhead is having to raise his voice to be heard over the orchestra – ‘in this way, with personalities like these, the future will be peaceful, it will be harmless, finally, it will be happy. Please, ladies and gentlemen, welcome them to the stage!'

The door to the back room is opened; the sound of applause and the orchestra bursts in causing Roger to squirm in his wheelchair, chewing on the knickers. Baby Sally starts crying. Joe grabs Life by the hand and Anka jumps angrily to her feet. She is the first to be taken by the arm and led from the room by a purple-shellsuited girl. The others follow. One by one they are led out onto the stage.

‘Introducing,' cries Ian the Dickhead, ‘Anka Kudolski!'

The applause intensifies after each name is called. Anka is attempting to struggle with her minder but it's no good.

‘Roger Hart!'

Ian is slightly surprised when Roger emerges gagged and in a wheelchair. But he continues nevertheless.

‘Introducing . . . Janek Freeman!'

Janek appears. He has the eyes of a drunk. He stares at the audience with no understanding at all.

‘Finally,' cries the Dickhead. Please welcome Life Moberg and, holding her hand, Joe Aspen and, in the travel seat, Sally! Come on, ladies and gentlemen, welcome them all to the stage. Give them a generous round of applause.'

The shellsuited young with this season's eyes position everyone in a line at the front of the stage, either side of Ian's podium. When everyone's where they should be, the helpers leave the stage and for a moment, the banqueting suite is awash with applause. Some of the elderly guests even rise from their seats, clapping and turning and smiling at their fellow guests in amazement.

‘I'm sure,' says Ian, carefully pushing Marlon Brando's penis off his nose, ‘I'm sure you'll all want a chance to meet these people face to face. You'll get that chance, I assure you. Soon we will serve you food on trays. All these people will mingle with you and you'll get a chance to have a little chat
with each of them. But first, I'd like to just give you a little background information, if I may.'

Joe is staring across at Life. He's thinking, whatever all this is, I'm going to sort it out, I'm going to fucking save the day, I'm going to stand on the harbour in the Faroe Islands, waiting for the fishermen, for the trawlers with the catch. Beside him, Life is deflated. Things have twirled and twisted so far out of control. She's tired.

Anka Kudolski isn't tired. She's pissed off. She is staring at dear little Roger, next to her, squirming in his chair. I'll save him, she's thinking. I'll shag him. I'll teach him where my clitoris is. We will help each other live. I'll get back into art, back into food. Life will be good again.

Roger is flustered and staring around the banqueting suite at the elderly guests, then at the football match taking place beneath the window. At the far end of the stage, Janek is dead to the world.

‘I'll begin, ladies and gentlemen, with Anka Kudolski.' Ian turns to Anka and lifts one of her arms by its wrist.

‘Some of you, no doubt, will already be familiar with Anka Kudolski. She's something of a late-night TV star in Manchester. Let me explain her appearance. Though traditionally a rather depressing mental illness, in the future most of what we now know as women will stride around looking as skeletal as Anka here. Characterised by a sense of duality and a desire for control, the anorexic is not just an exciting and entertaining mentally ill young woman, but increasingly she has become a person to look up to, aspire to and find attractive. Again, this is a sign that evolution is ending, that the humans are trying to survive, that women are trying to blend in with the wild future by rarely eating.

‘Anka here is a vivacious masturbator. Do you get it?
Anka as in wanker. I must say, we were all pissing ourselves in the lab when we came up with that idea. We gave Anka the desire to masturbate over the image of herself. She is designed to delight in the idea of others masturbating over her. She is designed to never eat. In the Wild World, such desires will be widespread. Our successors here on earth will sexually fantasise over themselves. When wanked over by others, they will feel extremely proud. They will enjoy the feeling of starving to death. How have you found it, Anka?'

Anka is seething. She is staring at Ian the Dickhead with a red face. She speaks through gritted teeth.

‘I've killed her. I have. I've killed her. I've killed the Anka you made. I smashed her head against a tiled wall. I met Roger. I'm getting better. Soon I'll be able to eat. You think I'm incapable of putting on weight, but you're wrong. I'm an artist. I'm Jackson fucking Pollock. I'll eat till I'm a fat bitch.'

Ian turns and grins at the audience. ‘Imagine that, ladies and gentlemen. A young woman who believes she's killed herself. A mentally ill young woman, starving to death, who wants to be an artist. We can rest assured that in the future, as I'm sure you're beginning to realise, those that succeed us will be fascinating. So entertaining.'

The audience applauds. Anka bows her head with rage.

‘And so to Roger Hart,' cries Ian, ‘who Anka here seems to have developed some affection for.' The dickhead sniggers. ‘Roger is another crazy guy. He is what we at the Wild World call a loudmouth. We designed Roger so he would be . . . how can I explain?' The dickhead kneads the tip of his dick with his eyes closed. ‘We designed Roger to be addicted to expressing himself. Yes. That's probably the
best way of putting it. In the Wild World, many individuals will become little more than descriptions of individuals. They will become so familiar with talking and writing about themselves that they will be unable to stop. But, and this is the important thing, they will describe themselves magnificently. They will spend hours on the Internet, for example; expressing wild opinions about themselves, describing the events of their days in exciting ways, coming up with all sorts of emotions that they believe themselves to be feeling. They will express shocking and hilarious opinions on every subject imaginable. Let me show you.'