They’ve tried to inject some character into the place by dotting a few trees and benches around the broad plazas in front of the monolithic grey shops, but it’s a token gesture at best. The goal here is to get you into those shops and spending, not hanging about smelling the flowers and having a nice time outside.
I get to Whitehaven at just gone 9 a.m.
By half eleven I’m bored to tears, jazzed on coffee, and my car boot is full of several roll necks from FatFace, a myriad of sleep tops from Next, a particularly fluffy pair of slippers from M&S, and, for some reason, a kitchen utensil pot with a picture of a whale on it. I bought it in that weird Scandinavian shop – the one whose name no one can ever entirely remember once they’ve walked out of the doors. It sells thousands of different products, while at the same time being completely chock-a-block with nothing but memory foam cushions and kitchen utensil pots featuring pictures of aquatic mammals.
This protest had really better get going soon, before I end up spending the rest of my month’s shopping allowance in one morning. There’s only so long I can hold out before I just have to buy that fluffy green onesie in Primark.
Luckily for my bank balance (and sense of self-worth . . . mark my words, the wearing of a onesie puts you on a very slippery slope), at about eleven forty-five I start to see and hear a commotion coming from the main central plaza that sits right in the middle of Whitehaven, where two of the broad pedestrian streets intersect with one another.
Coming out of Primark, I see that a small crowd has started to form in front of about a dozen people. This group is an eclectic bunch. Half hippy, half middle-class ex-prep school – they aesthetically mix about as well as milk and olive oil.
Two of them are currently erecting a large banner, strung across two very heavy-looking metal stands. When the banner is taut enough to read, I can see that it says Warriors For The Planet. The a’s in ‘warrior’ and ‘planet’ are stylised to look like the planet Earth. This means that the banner actually reads Worriors For The Plonet, which is a little unfortunate. Quite why they chose to convert the a’s and not the o’s is beyond me. Sounds like they need a good PR company to handle their branding.
I’m definitely in the right place, though. That much is certain.
The question is, where is Nolan?
I crane my head to look at the crowd that’s fast gathering around the Worriors, but there’s no sign of my new boss as yet. Perhaps he’s only coming once the protest is officially underway.
Never mind, this gives me the chance to ingratiate myself with the protestors a little. That way, when Nolan does arrive, it’ll look like I already know them. This will help cement my climate-friendly credentials.
I sidle my way up to one of the Worriors who is decidedly in the middle-class camp. Nobody else in the world could – or would want to – pull off a chunky-knit blue cardigan and a dark-green blazer. They both go well with the thick spectacles, wavy brown quiff and pinched expression.
‘Morning!’ I say brightly, affecting my most friendly of tones. I really want to get on this chap’s good side.
He looks quite startled. ‘Er . . . hello?’
‘You’re the Warriors For The Planet, then?’
‘Er . . . yes. Why do you want to know?’
He’s gone very cagey.
I’m not all that surprised. I doubt they get many ordinary members of the public chatting to them at these kinds of events. The inclination of the great British public is to stand and watch in curious amusement at protests, not actively engage with the participants.
Either that, or he thinks I’m an undercover police officer about to search him for cannabis.
‘Because I’m very keen on being more environmentally conscious!’ I lie through my teeth. I can hardly say I’m here to save my bloody job, can I?
‘Oh, right. That’s, er . . . that’s super.’
Well, you could be a bit more enthusiastic about it, pal. I thought you’d be delighted that someone was actually taking an interest.
‘What are you protesting about here today?’ I ask him.
In return, he gives me a rather scared and unsure look. This is clearly not what he was expecting.
‘Er . . . um . . . I don’t usually talk to people.’
‘Don’t you?’
‘No. Not after what happened at the petrol station.’
‘What happened at the petrol station?’
‘Um . . . I ended up telling a reporter where our old HQ was.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Bandy was really mad at me.’
‘Bandy?’
The middle-class chap holds out an arm and points at one of the hippy-looking Worriors – a woman in a tie-dye tank top who sports very muscular biceps and a fine head of white dreadlocks.
‘That’s Bandy,’ he tells me. ‘She does the talking.’
‘Ah, right. I should probably go and have a chat with her then, yeah?’
‘Er . . . yeah.’
I think that’s just about all I’m going to get out of him. He looks like he’d rather be doing absolutely anything else than talking to me.
I take my hasty leave, and walk over to where Bandy is finishing off the erection of the banner. Still no sign of Nolan in the crowd, which is probably a good thing. I want it to look like I’m well ensconced with this lot before he arrives.
‘Bandy?’ I say as I approach her.
‘Yeah? Can I help you?’
Well, she seems a little happier to talk – if no less suspicious, from the looks of her narrowed eyes.
‘I hope so! I’m very interested in the protest and just wanted to have a chat.’
She nods her head. ‘Oh right, are you from Padlo’s bunch?’
‘Padlo’s bunch?’
‘Yeah. He said he’d try to get a load of his lot down, to swell the numbers a bit.’
‘Yes! That’s right! I’m with Padlo’s bunch. Most certainly. With Padlo. And his bunch.’
Oh good grief. What on earth am I doing?
‘There any more of you coming?’
‘Er . . .’
‘Only he said he’d try and get at least ten of you down.’
‘Oh . . . well . . . I don’t really know. I’m a bit new to all of this. A bit new to being part of . . . Padlo’s bunch.’
Bandy nods again. ‘Oh well. Let’s just hope more of you do turn up.’ She looks me up and down. I’m not dressed as a hippy or a cast member from Made in Chelsea, so she’s not too sure about me – I can tell. ‘Have you done a die-in before?’
‘A die-in?’
‘Yeah. That’s why we’re here. Didn’t you know that?’
‘Er . . . yes! Of course I did! And of course I’ve done one before! Oh my, yes. I’ve done . . . two. Two die-ins.’
‘Great! Looking forward to making a statement with you!’
‘Absolutely!’
Again, what the bloody hell am I doing?
Seriously . . . anyone have any ideas? Because I’m all out.
I think I must have lost the plot.
Bandy looks around to see a group of about ten or so people making their way with purpose towards us. ‘Ah! There you go! Padlo’s bunch!’ she says with some relief in her voice. ‘Nice to see that some more of you have turned up!’
Oh shit.
Coming towards me are more Made-in-Chelseas, more hippies, and a couple of people combining both looks to create monstrous Hippies-in-Chelsea, wearing fashion choices that would make the entire staff of Vogue magazine spontaneously combust.
I’d better make myself scarce, before Padlo’s bunch get closer. My brilliantly devised piece of subterfuge will be exposed otherwise.
But how do I get away from Bandy before they get here?
‘Ellie Cooke?’ a voice says from the crowd behind me.
Oh, lord. The timing is perfect.
I turn around to see Nolan Reece standing at the edge of the crowd, looking at me in disbelief. ‘Are you . . . are you part of the Warrior
s?’ he calls over, stepping forward a little.
I look back at my new dreadlocked friend. ‘Sorry, Bandy. That’s a friend of mine. Can I go and say hello?’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ she replies. ‘I’ll go and talk to the rest of your bunch. Make sure they’re all happy about what’s going on, like you are.’
‘Great!’ I respond, and walk swiftly in the direction of Nolan, letting Bandy go and greet Padlo’s bunch, of which I am supposed to be a part.
‘Hi, Nolan,’ I say as I reach him. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine, thanks. Are you part of this? Are you part of the Warriors’ protest?’
‘Yes!’ I lie. ‘Yes I am! I’m one of Padlo’s bunch.’
‘Padlo’s bunch?’
‘Yes! Padlo’s . . . bunch.’ I laugh in a slightly hysterical manner. I’ve managed to weave a web of utter lies around myself in virtually no time at all. It’s a little terrifying. ‘So nice to see you here too!’ I say, grinning for all I’m worth.
And I am genuinely happy, if I’m being honest. Everything is more or less going to plan. My new boss has just seen me chatting animatedly with one of the senior Worriors, and further, I’ve managed to convince him that I’m one of Padlo’s bunch.
Whoever the hell they actually are.
Now all I have to do is stand here with Nolan Reece, watch the protest unfold, and keep maintaining the fiction that I know the Worriers Of The Plonet like they were my best friends. That should do it.
‘Oi! You!’ Bandy calls over to me, having said her hellos to Padlo’s bunch.
‘Yes?’ I call back.
‘We’re about to start! Are you coming over?’
‘Coming over?’
‘Yes! To start the protest! All the rest of your lot are ready to go!’ She waves a hand in the general direction of Padlo’s bunch, who are now lined up behind Bandy, along with the rest of the Worriers For The Plonet.
Padlo’s bunch are all looking at me with a great deal of confusion on their faces. And who can blame them? Bandy’s probably just told them I’m part of their crew, and they’ve never seen me before in their lives.
‘Come on!’ Bandy insists again, beckoning me towards her.
Nolan gives me an expectant look.
Oh.
Oh, I see.
I may have painted myself into something of a corner here . . .
‘Go on,’ Nolan encourages. ‘Good luck. I’m sure it will go very well.’
‘Yes. Thank you,’ I reply, in a stilted voice.
I’m now going to have to take part in an environmental protest in front of about a hundred shoppers, and my new boss. And I have no clue what I’m supposed to do.
I scuttle over to where Bandy and the rest of them are waiting in three rough lines of people. I’ll just have to watch what they do, copy as best I can, and hope I come out of it all without actually looking like what I am – an interloper who has zero clue what the hell is going on here.
As I take my place just to Bandy’s left, she stands up straight and adopts a pose obviously meant for some hardcore oratory.
‘The world is dying!’ she virtually screams to all here gathered. ‘Our planet is doomed!’
Cheery start, then.
Bandy points an accusatory finger at the crowd. ‘And you are to blame!’
Oh, well. At least she’s trying to get the crowd onside early.
‘You, with your consumerism! You, with your consumption!’
Around me, the rest of the Worriors are all nodding along with this diatribe. I don’t feel like I can join in with them, as I have a kitchen utensil pot with a whale on it in my car.
Bandy waves her pointy, accusatory finger around Whitehaven Shopping Centre. ‘And here, in this monument to consumption, we make a stand! A stand against you! A stand against the abuse of our world by corporations, who only exist to strip the planet of its resources, and sell pointless objects of desire to you!’
A few of the Worriors cheer at this.
Marvellous. I’m surrounded by raving nutters.
I look over at Nolan to see that he’s listening to all of this with a mixture of concern and doubt on his face. It’s a little hard to discern whether this concern is for the planet, or for his own personal safety in the face of this verbal onslaught.
‘The waste we produce. The waste you create when you buy this garbage!’ Bandy continues, now at the point where there’s every chance she’s about to start frothing at the mouth. ‘All of the waste that surrounds us! It is killing our animals! It is killing our creatures!’
Well, no argument on that one.
‘YOU are killing our creatures!’ she screams at the crowd.
That’s a bit harsh.
I doubt anyone who pops into Next to pick up a new cushion thinks they’re murdering an elephant or a porpoise at the same time. Possibly poking a halibut until it swims off in a bad mood, but definitely not killing a porpoise.
‘We are here to show you what that killing looks like!’ Bandy wails.
Oh no. She’s not going to start pulling out pictures of animals being murdered, is she? I don’t think I can cope with that, and if she hasn’t lost the crowd already, that’s sure to do it.
‘We will now re-enact what it looks like to be one of the majestic creatures being murdered by your consumerism! By YOUR own hand, every time you shop in one of these places! Listen to their screams!’
Re-enact? Screams?
What?
‘Everybody!’ Bandy screeches, turning around to look at the rest of us in her motley crew. ‘Begin the die-in!’
And with that, the group of climate protestors around me simultaneously start to thrash around like their lives depend on it. As they do this, they all also start to grunt, scream and moan, in what I can only assume is a vague approximation of a bunch of dying animals.
There’s a lot of roaring going on – which I take it is supposed to embody the big cats of the world in their death throes. There are quite a few people barking too, so the dog population is being represented very well, you’ll be pleased to know.
A small man wearing a woollen beanie is making farting noises and hopping up and down on one leg. What animal that is meant to be, I have no fucking idea. I’ll have to run it by David Attenborough the next time I see him.
Bandy is particularly animated up front. She’s flailing her arms around above her head, and jumping from one foot to the other. She’s also jerking about like someone’s stuck a cattle prod up her arse, and is doing her very best impression of what I can only assume is a dying monkey, or possibly an ape – it’s hard to tell which.
‘OOH-OOH AAAH-AAAAAAAAAHHH!! ’ she cries to the heavens. ‘OOH-AAH! OOH-AAH! OOK! OOK! OOK! ’ she screams out to the firmament.
Is that what a dying monkey sounds like? You’d have thought a dying monkey would be a bit quieter, wouldn’t you? What with all the dying going on, and everything. That just sounds like a really pissed-off monkey. The only dying that will happen will be from whoever is on the other end of it.
The rest of the Worriors are putting almost as much effort into their impressions, it has to be said. I’m surrounded by a group of people who wouldn’t look out of place in a terrible amateur-dramatics production of Life on Earth.
The middle-class chap I first spoke to is apparently trying his best to recreate the death of a dolphin, as he’s lying on the ground, making distressed clicking noises, and has popped an upturned, open hand on the back of his head, which I guess is meant to be a fin.
‘CLICKY WICKY CLICK-CLICK-CLICKETY,’ he goes.
Now, I’ve confessed that I don’t know what a dying monkey sounds like, but I’m slightly more familiar with dolphins, and I’m pretty sure that, when they do die, they don’t sound like someone’s fucking a box of chopsticks.
Nevertheless, he’s giving it his best of British, and I can hardly fault the enthusiasm.
Bandy breaks off from her ooking to look up at me. ‘What are you doing?!’ she hisses.
‘Pardon me?’
‘Die with us!’ she demands.
Oh, crap badgers. I’m supposed to be doing this as well, aren’t I?
But I can’t! It looks so embarrassing.
I wasn’t expecting all these amateur dramatics. I just can’t put myself through it!
But then I look over at Nolan Reece, who is staring back at me with confusion. He’s obviously expecting me to do my bit as well. And if I don’t, I’m going to ruin whatever goodwill I may have built up since arriving here at this bizarre moment in my life.
Fuck it.
Let’s just get this over with.
. . . but what dying animal should I do an impression of?
Another monkey?
Nope.
We’ve already established I have no idea what one of them sounds like when it’s expiring, and I wouldn’t want to be inaccurate.
A dolphin?
Again, no. Chopstick-fucking isn’t really my thing.
What animal is it easy to do an impression of? I can’t do a dog or a cat, they’re already being well served.
Chicken?
Nah. That’s no good. Everyone loves a KFC.
Cow?
Nope. McDonald’s.
What animals do people love? I want to connect with my audience here, so have to go for the heartstrings . . .
I know! Pandas! Everyone fucking loves a panda, don’t they? They’re cute, fluffy, and most of all – endangered.
Right then. Excellent choice, Ellie.
Now . . . what the hell do pandas sound like? Especially when they’re being murdered?
I saw that one video that went round of the panda sneezing, but that probably won’t do the trick. Can you sneeze in agony? Can you convey the depths of human depravity towards our planet’s natural fauna with a sneeze?
Probably not.
Fuck it, I’ll just mime eating a bamboo shoot, and then start screaming for a bit.
I hold out both hands, clutching an imaginary thick sheaf of bamboo, and start to nibble at it. When I feel an appropriate amount of time has gone by, I let out a high-pitched scream of agony. Then, for some reason, I go back to nibbling the bamboo.
Look, it’s all I fucking know about pandas, alright? They sit around and nibble bamboo. They’re famous for it.
Going Green Page 4