Nibble.
‘Aaaargh!’
Nibble.
‘Aaaaaaaaargh!’
Nibble.
‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!’
‘What the fuck are you doing?’
This is Bandy, who has stopped her dying-monkey impression to berate me.
‘I’m dying,’ I reply, somewhat indignant that she’s not appreciating my efforts. ‘I’m being one of the planet’s most noble creatures, being murdered in the middle of its favourite snack.’
Bandy looks nonplussed. ‘You think a squirrel is one of the planet’s most noble creatures?’
‘Squirrel? What do you mean, squirrel?’
Bandy points at my invisible bamboo sheaf. ‘You’re miming eating a nut.’
‘A nut?’
‘Yes!’
I hold out my invisible bamboo sheaf for inspection. ‘That’s not a bloody nut, it’s a load of bamboo!’
Can’t she bloody see the difference? It’s quite clear to me!
‘I’m a fucking panda!’ I assert, most adamantly.
‘Well, you look like a squirrel! And you sound like one!’
‘Do I?’
‘Yes! I accidentally shot one once when I was at Granny’s place in the country. Sounded just like you did, before Daddy . . . sorted it out.’
There are a whole series of issues going on in that sentence, but I don’t have the time or the inclination to work through them right now.
‘No! I’m not a squirrel! I’m a panda! I’m a nibbling, screaming, dying panda!’ I insist, feeling that this whole thing is getting away from me.
‘Dying pandas do NOT sound like that!’ Bandy insists.
I point a finger over at the middle-class chap, who is continuing to do his impression of a dying dolphin. ‘CLICKETY CLICKETY CLICK-CLICK WICKETY CLICK,’ he goes, waggling his hand about on the back of his head for all he’s worth.
‘Well, dying dolphins don’t sound like someone shagging a Chinese restaurant, either!’ I say, in what I believe is a very valid defence of my impression – even if I do say so myself.
‘Are you mad?’ Bandy exclaims.
‘Am I mad?’ I retort.
‘Everything alright, ladies?’ I hear Nolan Reece call over from his vantage point at the front of the crowd. A crowd, it has to be said, that has thinned out considerably since we started the actual die-in. Not surprising, really. Once it’s been established that the people in front of you are stark raving loonies, it’s probably best to get away from them as quickly as possible, and get on with your shopping.
‘Er . . . yes! All fine!’ I call back to him, plastering on a hectic, positive expression. Nolan cannot think I am not completely at one with my protesting brethren here. I look back at Bandy. ‘I’ll try a little harder, I promise!’ I stage-whisper at her, so Nolan can’t hear.
‘Good! This a very serious thing we’re doing here. There is no time for humour!’
My brow furrows.
I’m holding an invisible sheaf of bamboo, surrounded by people jerking about like someone’s just put fifty thousand volts through Noah’s Ark, and this woman doesn’t think this is a time for humour? These green folk may have their hearts in the right places, but their funny bones are entirely absent.
‘Alright, alright,’ I say, trying to mollify her.
I thought my bamboo-nibbling was exceptional. There’s no accounting for taste, is there?
Bandy nods, and returns to her own strange gyrations.
Another few minutes of thrashing and wailing go by around me, while I stand there like the spare prick at a wedding, until Bandy makes a particularly loud moaning noise, which seems to be the cue for everyone to bring their performances to a close. Thank the lord.
When the whole crew of Worriors have finally become as motionless as I’ve been for the past five minutes, Bandy gives it a couple of beats before coming out of her appalling monkey impression. The rest of them follow suit.
‘We die here, so that you may see!’ Bandy shouts at the vastly diminished crowd. ‘To see how our animal friends are dying! We die for them!’
Bloody hell, love. Monkeying about on a bit of concrete for ten minutes is not dying. I’m sure if the average endangered species could see what’s gone on here, and make a comment about it, they’d probably tell good old Bandy to do something a bit more practical about the situation – give a few quid to Greenpeace, for instance. Or lobby a few politicians.
Performing overwrought amateur dramatics in front of a load of bored shoppers probably isn’t going to do much, other than reinforce the idea that environmental protestors are a right bunch of Padlos.
‘We leave here now, hoping that you have seen us!’ Bandy continues to enunciate, in a tone that suggests she’s about to bust a gasket. ‘Hoping that you see them! Hoping that you feel their pain! That you stop your endless consumerism here in this place, because it’s killing them!’
I’m not convinced Bandy and chums have managed to persuade anyone that there’s much of a link between popping into JD Sports for a new pair of flip-flops and the murder of our planet’s fauna. By the looks on the faces of the small crowd left watching us, I’d say they’re not convinced either.
Only Nolan appears to be agreeing, and nodding along to what Bandy is saying. It really does seem like he’s taking all this environmental stuff to heart. Viridian PR is going to be a very different place from Stratagem – there’s no doubt of that.
‘Thank you all for watching!’ Looks like Bandy is wrapping things up now. Probably for the best. I can see three Whitehaven security guards standing over by Topshop, giving us very dark looks. ‘We will continue to fight for our planet!’ she says, with obvious passion. ‘We will continue to call out the injustices! We will continue to speak truth to power!’ Bandy takes a deep breath, and thrusts a fist into the air. ‘We will continue!’ she cries, once more to the heavens.
‘We will continue!’ all of the other Worriors say in unison, also punching their fists upwards.
Oh shit, this is a thing, is it?
‘We . . . we will continue!’ I say, a bit half-heartedly, while gently shaking a loosely clenched fist at about head height.
As far as clarion calls go, I’m not sure ‘we will continue’ is quite up there with ‘cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war’. These people are clearly in dire need of some decent public relations.
With the mission statement proudly echoing around the glass-fronted shops, the Worriors For The Plonet protest comes to an end.
I’d better get my butt over to where Nolan is, and see what he thinks of my contribution. I have a lot riding on this.
I skip over to where he’s now talking quite animatedly with one of the Worriors. I have to dodge Bandy and the middle-class chap as I do this, as they take down the banner with practised ease.
‘Hi!’ I say cheerily to Nolan, interrupting whatever conversation he was having with the Worrior – who is a very middle-class lady of about fifty, wearing a white denim jacket and a maroon pashmina that was probably made in a factory that eats sea lion cubs for breakfast. I seem to remember she was one of the barking dogs from the protest. Possibly a chihuahua.
‘Hello, Ellie!’ Nolan replies brightly, before looking back at his companion. ‘Jill, do you know Ellie?’ he asks her.
The lady standing with Nolan gives me a blank look. ‘No . . . I don’t think we’ve ever met.’
‘Oh,’ Nolan replies, a bit confused. ‘Well, this is Ellie Cooke, one of the employees at the PR firm I just bought.’
‘Er . . . hello,’ Jill says. This must be the same Jill whose comment on Facebook led me here today. ‘You were part of the protest?’
‘Yes, I was!’ I reply. ‘I was doing a panda.’
Jill’s eyes narrow a bit. ‘I’ve never seen you at any of the meetings, or seen you in the Facebook group?’
I’m prepared for this.
‘I’m part of Padlo’s bunch!’ I tell her confidently. This excuse has s
een me right so far today, and I’m hoping this will continue. The one thing I’ve learned from being in public relations is that if you say or do something confidently enough, people tend to go along with you. Perception is reality, after all.
‘Ah,’ Jill replies, a bit unsure, and nods her head slowly.
Ha! Works like a charm, every time.
At some stage, I’ll actually have to try to meet this Padlo person. They have become a vitally important part of today’s subterfuge, and I probably owe them a drink.
‘Well, it was nice to meet you, Ellie,’ Jill adds, and looks back at Nolan. ‘And wonderful to see you too, Nolan.’
‘Yes! Absolutely!’ Nolan replies. ‘We’ll definitely have to arrange a meeting for you guys to come in and discuss your needs going forward. I’m sure there’s something we can do to help you raise the profile of the whole organisation.’
Jill beams at this. ‘That would be magnificent. The more people that hear about us, the more we’ll get them onside, I’m sure. I’ll be in touch.’
Jill gives Nolan a warm hug, shakes my hand briefly, and then returns to where Bandy and co. are milling about, talking to one another in what I can only assume is some kind of post-protest debrief.
‘Are we going to be doing PR for them?’ I ask Nolan.
You’ll note my cunning use of the word ‘we’ there.
‘Yes, probably. They’d only be a small client, but the small ones often bring in the bigger fish, don’t they?’
‘Absolutely.’
He blinks a couple of times. ‘So . . . you’re an environmental protestor?’ He sounds quite amazed.
‘Yes! Well . . . this is my first time,’ I confide. I figure I can admit as much. It’s the fact that I’m here and taking part that matters. ‘But I’ve been very concerned about our planet’s wildlife for years now. You know, because of all the global warming and stuff.’
Look, I don’t like lying – even when it’s for a good cause. I know I sound incredibly awkward when I attempt to tell falsehoods, and I’d rather not have to do it, but we all know what the stakes are here.
If it troubles you morally, feel free to go and look at the Primark window display. They have a sale on.
‘I thought I needed to do something. To show just how much I care . . . so I came down here today with Padlo’s bunch to do my bit.’
Nolan nods his obvious approval. ‘Well, I was quite surprised to see you, but I think what you’re doing is lovely. And brave. Not sure I could do something like that in front of lots of people.’
‘Me either! But when it comes to saving the world, what choice do we have?’
Oh God, I’m going to vomit. Throw up right here and now, if I’m not careful.
‘Er . . . no! Exactly! There is no choice,’ Nolan agrees. ‘That’s why I wanted to see if the Warriors For The Planet wanted any help with their public profile. They can’t pay much, but I’m happy for us to take the work on anyway, as it’s for such an important cause.’
Us.
He said us.
My Machiavellian grand master plan appears to be working!
Aha ha ha ha ha!
‘Excuse me?’
I feel a finger lightly poke me in the shoulder.
I swing around to see a little mole-like man in a woollen beanie staring up at me. He was the hopping, farting thing from earlier, if you recall.
‘Hello? Can I help you?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know. My name is Padlo. Bandy seems to think you’re part of my bunch?’
Oh fuck.
Oh fuck on toast.
I need to get out of this conversation before everything goes resolutely south.
‘Aha! Padlo!’ I exclaim as excitedly as possible. ‘So nice to see you here!’
‘Sorry? Who are you?’
‘Aha! Come on Padlo! You know me!’ I tell the little man, throwing an arm around his shoulders in the chummiest of fashions. I then whip my head back around to look at Nolan. ‘Sorry, Nolan, have to chat with Padlo here. You know how it is!’
Nolan looks nonplussed.
Nonplussed is better than angry or upset, so we’ll go with it.
‘Oh, okay,’ he says. ‘I guess I’ll see you at work on Monday then?’
‘Yes! Yes, you absolutely will! At work! On Monday! You and me!’
I can feel Padlo starting to wriggle out of my grip, but I’m bigger than him, and have actually been using my gym membership properly for the past few months, so have no real trouble keeping him in place.
‘Come on, Padlo!’ I command, starting to drag him away.
I don’t let him go again until we’re back among the crowd of Worriors.
‘Will you please let me go!’ he insists, and manages to extricate himself from my grip.
I stare at him for a second, before affecting an expression of fabricated horror. ‘Oh! I’m so sorry! I completely mistook you for somebody else!’
‘You did what?’
‘Or I mistook me for somebody else, one of the two.’
I’ve become aware that a whole sea of faces is now regarding me with a mixture of incomprehension and irritation. I think that my time among the Worriors For The Plonet may be coming to an end . . .
I glance back over to see that Nolan appears to have disappeared, and breathe a sigh of relief. My barely held-together subterfuge has worked.
Whether this will be enough for me to keep my job or not remains to be seen, but for today, I think we can safely chalk this one up as a victory.
Returning my attention to the unhappy Worriors, I notice that Padlo and Bandy have come together in front of me, both looking decidedly unhappy.
It’s time I got out of here.
‘Bandy! Padlo! Thank you so much for letting me join in with your excellent protest today!’ I say to them both.
Effusive thanks always disarms people, I find. The more exaggerated you can be about it, the better. It’s probably not something you could get away with in any other country, but it goes down a storm in Great Britain.
‘Oh, well . . . that’s okay,’ Bandy replies.
‘Yes, yes,’ Padlo agrees.
‘It really was a great experience!’
‘I’m sorry – who are you again?’ Padlo asks, a bit more about himself.
‘I’m a person who has learned a valuable lesson!’ I tell him. ‘A valuable lesson about how our world needs us to do more!’
The crowd behind him actually nod approvingly at this.
‘I’ve learned that we can’t just sit back and do nothing!’
More nods – quite enthused this time.
‘We’ve got to make a stand!’
Now there’s some murmurs of agreement.
‘Make a difference!’
The murmurs become cheers.
‘Stop the rot!’
There’s a couple of fist pumps now.
‘Make the people see that something needs to change!’
Now even Bandy and Padlo are nodding along and looking inspired.
‘And for me, that starts now!’ I cry – channelling Mel Gibson in blue face-paint as hard as I can. ‘I’m going to leave here now, and start fighting the good fight!’
More cheers and fist-pumping.
‘Farewell, my friends! I go now to save our world!’
Oh God, a couple of them are actually clapping, bless ’em.
I thrust out one arm in front of me and stride off in the direction of the car park, with the raucous approval of the Worriors as my backing music.
All things considered, I think I got out of that quite well.
People with causes are always quite easy to get on the right side of. You just have to convince them that their cause is as important to you – if not more so – as it is to them. The rest is ethically produced gravy.
Highly manipulative, I know . . . but needs must, and all that.
My efforts here today should go some way to persuading Nolan to keep me on at Viridian PR. They certainly can’t ha
ve done any harm.
I’d probably do a little more environmental protesting, if it weren’t for all the bizarre amateur theatrics. I’ve never been one for the stage . . . I’d rather be in the audience.
Rest assured though – as soon as environmentalists swap monkeying about in shopping centres for eating cake and watching Netflix, I will be there like a bloody shot.
Chapter Three
POT PLANTS, PANTS AND P45S
It’s the following Monday morning, and only one thought suffuses my poor, sleep-deprived brain: Have I done enough?
Have I done enough to convince Nolan Reece to keep me on?
On Saturday, as I drove back from Whitehaven, I felt confident that I had – but you know what it’s like . . . it doesn’t take long for the worm of doubt to crawl back into your head and start rummaging around.
I gave Sean a call that evening to fill him in on all the gory details, and to get some kind of reassurance that my scheme had probably worked.
Sean is always good for reassurance. It’s one of his greatest qualities.
He was in hysterics by the time I’d finished telling him all about my panda impression, but after he’d calmed down a bit, he did tell me he thought what I’d done would probably help my cause with Nolan, which was tremendously reassuring.
For about an hour, anyway.
By the time I went to bed that night, I’d managed to convince myself that my antics had done nothing to prevent the loss of my job, and that the only thing I’d accomplished was to wind up a load of hippies.
I spent Sunday trying to calm myself down a bit, and convince the brain worm that I had indeed managed to impress Nolan Reece.
But that wasn’t enough to quieten my worries.
Not by a long chalk.
Have I done enough?
The thought still echoes around my worm-filled brain as I get to my desk on Monday, and fire up the computer.
Of Nolan Reece there is no physical sign this morning . . . but he has sent an email to us all.
In it, he apologises for his absence, and bids us to continue with whatever tasks we still have on hand. He also tells us that it will be Friday before we know for certain who will be staying on and who will be leaving the company.
He does not mention how much he enjoyed bumping into me at Whitehaven Shopping Centre, which is annoying. I would have liked some idea of whether my efforts have borne fruit, but I’ll just have to remain worryingly in the dark for now.
Going Green Page 5