‘Absolutely. Glad to help out. Plastic pollution is a scourge we have to stop.’
‘Yes. It most certainly is,’ she replies.
I nod to Helen and get up from the table, making my way down to the small bedroom at the end of the narrow corridor and letting myself in.
Inside is a tiny single bed with no sheets on it. I take off my jacket, popping it on the bed for safekeeping.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ I whisper under my breath as I await Skye and the costume. ‘Same thing we always do,’ I reply in slight exasperation. ‘Throw ourselves into something without considering the bloody consequences.’
There’s a knock at the door, and I open it to find the entire corridor of the motorhome filled with light-blue foam. Behind this is Skye, who pushes herself into the bedroom. I have to step back against the rear wall, such is the size of the damn thing she’s holding.
‘Well, here it is,’ she tells me. ‘It’s not hard to get on. You just open it up and slip it over your head. It’s brand new. No one’s had it on before, so it’s nice and clean.’ She regards me critically. ‘Do you have anything on under that roll neck?’
‘Um. Yeah. My bra.’
‘Oh, okay. You’ll want to take the sweater off. These things can get bloody hot. Dulcie’s in the other one, and she’s had to take off her shirt.’
‘Okay.’
‘I’ll just leave it here for you. If you get into any difficulties, let me know.’
Skye drops the costume to the ground and beats a hasty retreat.
The last thing I want to do is take off my sweater, but I guess I’d better do as she says. I don’t want to get the roll neck sweaty and dirty. It cost me an endlessly stupid amount of money, and I have no desire to ruin it.
I whip it off, shivering a little in the cool of the empty bedroom.
Then I pick up the heavy foam costume and attempt to put it on. At first I have some issues, given the tight space I am occupying, but with a little wriggling and manoeuvring, I successfully get the silly thing on, poking my head out of the hole at the front, to complete the fitting.
I know how ridiculous I must look, as I saw the others dressed up like me (including this Dulcie person, no doubt) when I came over to speak to Helen Carmichael. The costume is a big blue foam representation of a single-use plastic bottle, complete with fake label on the front. My arms stick out from the sides, my legs stick out of the bottom, and my head pokes out from a hole just below the bottle cap. The damn thing is big, round and annoyingly heavy.
This had better be worth my time. This had better lead to Helen Carmichael agreeing to work with Viridian. This had better show Nolan just how different I am from the person he first met.
I fumble open the door again, to find Skye just outside waiting for me.
‘Ah, good. You’re all set. Well done,’ she says to me. ‘We’ll just get you out of here and over to the start of the march. We’re kicking off really soon.’
‘Okay,’ I reply, already feeling the heat start to ratchet up. Hopefully it’ll be cooler outside.
Skye turns around and walks back up the corridor, allowing me to follow. This is quite difficult, as I have to squeeze the awkward foam along the narrow passage, keeping my head ducked so I don’t keep clonking the bottle cap on the ceiling.
I get to the front door of the motorhome and look at Helen Carmichael – who, for the first time today, has a smile on her face. It’s not a big one, but it’s definitely there. I get the impression that this is Helen’s equivalent of laughing her arse off.
‘Off I go then,’ I say cheerily, pushing the foam away from my chin, where it’s started to get a little tight.
‘Yes, indeed,’ Helen says. ‘Off you go.’
I let out an involuntary nervous chuckle, give her a dubious smile and push my way out into the open air.
Thank God it is quite a cold day, as I’m already starting to sweat, just from the exertion of getting out of the bloody motorhome. Christ knows what I’m going to be like on the parade.
Speaking of which, everything has moved on apace since I went in to speak to Helen. Everyone involved is now lined up in the street below that massive banner, and the crowd has grown a huge amount in both size and excitement level. This is probably because everyone’s waiting to see what’s under that giant tarpaulin, which has yet to be thrown off the float.
‘Come on!’ Skye implores me. ‘It’s all about to kick off, and we need to get you in place with everyone else!’
‘Er . . . what exactly am I supposed to be doing?’ I reply, as Skye grabs a hold of the foam just below my left arm, and starts propelling me towards the rest of the parade. This is probably a question I should have asked long before now.
‘You just have to walk along, talk to the crowd and hand out leaflets,’ she tells me.
‘Leaflets?’ I ask, trying my hardest not to fall over as Skye continues to drag me towards the start line. The bottom of the bottle costume is quite restrictive, and I can’t open my legs very wide. This makes hurrying exceptionally difficult.
‘Yes! Here!’ she says, and yanks out a large stack of leaflets from one of her large dungaree pockets. She hands them over to me, and I take a look at the top one as we reach the start line of the parade.
STOP THE PLASTIC TIDE! it says in big bold blue letters. All the ways YOU can help us save our oceans – in conjunction with World Action Today and Bio-Plast Engineering.
Ah, right. This will be easy enough. Just wobble along the road, stuff some leaflets into people’s hands and try not to fall over. And if I can hand enough of them out, then maybe it could make a difference. Maybe some people will actually read what’s on them, and go away from this with their minds changed.
We can but hope, eh?
‘Good!’ Skye exclaims with relief. ‘We’ve made it. Now all you have to do is follow the lead of the others in the same costumes.’ She indicates the three other volunteers dressed in the same foam bottles as me. They all nod gravely at me, and I nod gravely back at them. It’s like we’re all members of a secret society or something. One that hasn’t been going very long, and largely involves people who are also undergoing psychiatric treatment.
Over a loud and somewhat obnoxious tannoy, a voice booms out across the crowd. ‘Okay! It’s almost time for the parade to start!’ cries a disembodied male voice. I look around to find the source, but there’s just too much commotion and too many bodies around for me to see. ‘But first, it’s what you’ve all been waiting for – the grand unveiling of the narwhal!’
A roar of approval erupts from the crowd. Never have I heard so much excitement about an endangered sea creature. Not since I had to watch Finding Nemo with my brother’s kids.
I watch as several strong-looking WAT volunteers go and take up a corner of the tarpaulin each. Skye joins them to help.
She gives them all a three-count, and to the accompaniment of Beethoven’s ‘Ode to Joy’ blaring out from that bloody loud tannoy, the tarpaulin is pulled slowly off the float underneath, to the cheers and applause of everyone here gathered.
Except me. I’m too disorientated by recent events to do anything other than just stare. Besides, clapping might be a bit difficult in this costume, as the foam is so thick I can barely bring my hands together.
Finally, the star of the parade is revealed – a bloody enormous narwhal made out of what looks like thousands upon thousands of plastic bottles. It sits atop a long, low carnival float that is powered from the back by a grumpy-looking old man in a small cockpit-like arrangement just under and to the left of the narwhal’s enormous tail.
The giant sea mammal is an incredibly impressive bit of modern sculpture, while at the same time being the most disheartening thing I think I’ve ever seen. That much plastic together in one place is quite stomach-churning.
The narwhal’s massive front tusk protrudes out over the parade’s start line, and a sign is hung on its side that reads: Placcy the Plastic Narwhal – made from the am
ount of bottles that go into our oceans every second.
Fuck off.
That can’t be true.
There are tens of thousands of plastic bottles in that narwhal. It must weigh a tonne. There’s no way that figure can be accurate!
The kids in Sean’s class would know it’s true, Ellie. So you should too.
Jesus Christ.
I’m so glad I only ever carry a reusable bottle around with me these days, otherwise the guilt would be eating me up.
‘Okay, everyone! Let’s start the countdown to the beginning of our fantastic parade!’ the tannoy voice blares. ‘All organised by the wonderful charity, World Action Today, and sponsored by Bio-Plast Engineering – making your future the job of our present!’
I grimace.
That’s a pretty awful tagline you’ve got there, lads. About as catchy as a snapped fishing hook.
The tannoy voice starts a five-second countdown, as the circus acts and steel band all line up beside the narwhal, ready to get proceedings underway. I line up just behind them with my fellow foam bottle-heads. The volunteers in T-shirts surround us as we do, and I am instantly put in mind of the start of a marathon. Possibly the most garish, camp and ridiculous marathon in human history, that is.
‘Five! Four! Three! Two! One!’ tannoy man cries, heralding the start of our wonderful parade. The stilt walkers, fire breathers and jugglers all start moving forward, with Placcy the Narwhal just behind them, being piloted by that grumpy old man, who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else but on a cold, drizzly road adjacent to the grey beachfront to our collective left. The steel band also start playing at a tinnitus-inducing volume. I’m glad my ears are covered in all this foam.
Thankfully, the pace is as slow as you’d expect, given that the main attraction is a quarter-tonne of narwhal-shaped plastic. I am able to keep up perfectly fine, despite the restrictions on my leg movements.
The crowd are unendingly delighted that things have finally got underway, as you’d imagine.
I’m not so sure I am, as I am now forced to plaster a happy smile across my face, while thrusting leaflets into the hands of people who probably just want to enjoy the circus acts, and not be reminded that everyone is only here because we’re royally fucking up our planet. But they do need to be reminded. They just do.
Regardless, it’s nice to see so many people out here watching all of us go by. It really is a testament to how effective Helen Carmichael is. Getting a horde of human beings to come to one place and watch something is extremely difficult, unless your name happens to be Taylor Swift or Manchester United. Without celebrity or sporting prowess, getting the public to turn up to watch you is never a simple task. It takes a lot of planning, thought and talent.
If I’m going to get Helen to come on board with Viridian PR, I need to make sure that she knows we can offer her something more than she can accomplish herself. That starts with making the best job possible of being a big foam bottle.
But am I doing a good enough job of that right now? Okay, I am waddling along in the silly foam suit, handing out leaflets as I’ve been told, but I can’t say I’m really doing anything to distinguish myself from the others engaged in a similar activity. I’m not really standing out from the crowd. Looking around, I can see that the other bottle-wearers are a lot more animated and excited than I am. But then, they probably should be, given that they’ve been preparing for this parade for ages, instead of being thrust into it at the last minute.
Look at them dance and caper! The bloke on the other side of the narwhal is going as far as playing with the kids he passes, ruffling their hair and singing songs at them. What a bastard. He’s making me look deeply pedestrian and dull by comparison. I must do something to up my game here . . . otherwise my contribution will be forgettable, and that might not bode well for my chances of convincing Helen Carmichael that Viridian PR is the right company for her to work with!
. . . quite how I’ve reached the opinion that I need to dance around in a foam fancy-dress costume to persuade someone to go into business with me, I can’t quite fathom. I have become caught up in the moment to such an extent that rationality has begun to desert me somewhat. I am so keen to prove to Nolan that I am a changed person that I am willing to do some quite ridiculous and extraordinary things to accomplish it.
I must stand out from the crowd!
But how? I can’t fire breathe, juggle or walk on stilts – and I’m not sure I’m comfortable enough yet with The Sticky Things to go and interact with them.
I have to think of something else to get myself out in front.
Out in front.
That’s it! If I can get myself out in front of the rest of the parade, then surely I’ll be noticed!
Helen will be super impressed!
Not only will I have volunteered to wear the suit in a show of extreme solidarity, I will also have distinguished myself – by calling even greater attention to the evils of single-use plastic bottles by gyrating around at the head of the parade!
Hah! Take that, bloke on the other side and your stupid hair-ruffling!
There’s every chance having my head squeezed through the hole in this foam has cut off the circulation to my brain. That’s the only way I can justify this current train of thought.
With a plan fixed firmly in my mind, I start to bop and shuck my way towards the patch of road in front of the narwhal. As I pass the guy piloting the large plastic mammal, I can see that his misery has compounded itself even further in the half-mile or so that we’ve been going along the road. Poor chap. What he needs is the thrill of watching a bopping bottle.
And he’s about to bloody well get it!
Increasing my pace so my little legs are motoring away under the costume, I speed past a fire breather, a couple of the steel band, and the legs of one of the stilt walkers, emerging from between them to come alongside Placcy the Narwhal’s long pointy tusk.
As I do this, the float starts to power up a slight incline in the road, forcing me to puff and blow a bit to get ahead of the end of the tusk, and take up my place at the head of the march.
Once there, I look around to see that the crowd is looking at me with a degree of confusion on their faces. As well they might. A plastic bottle has just erupted from the rest of the parade like it thinks it’s the star of the show. But there’s nothing to distinguish it from the rest of its foamy blue brethren, so why the special attention?
I have no doubt that my fellow parade members are looking just as confused, given that this is not part of the plan. I bet Mr Hair Ruffler is particularly put out.
Shit.
What have I done?
What am I doing?
I didn’t really think this whole thing through, and now I either have to do something big and bold enough to justify this move to front and centre, or I have to slink back to my previous position, with my tail metaphorically between my legs.
What would Helen Carmichael do?
What would Nolan Reece do?
What would a version of Ellie Cooke not desperate to impress do?
Fucked if I know.
I guess I’ll just start doing the Macarena.
Whether, in the grand scheme of things, doing the Macarena dressed as a foam bottle in front of a giant plastic narwhal is the greatest strategy ever invented, I will leave you to decide. It’s probably not up there with the Roman conquest of Britain. But my options are limited here, and I can’t remember all the moves from the Whigfield ‘Saturday Night’ dance.
Also, I’m not really doing the Macarena, because that dance involves a lot of rhythmically wiggling your hips from side to side in time to the music. This is virtually impossible to accomplish in a large foam bottle suit, so I just look like I’m having a seizure – possibly brought on by an allergic reaction to the foam.
I then try to do the bit of the dance where you put your hands up on the back of your head, but I can’t get my arms above shoulder height, so they just stick out in front of me.
Therefore, I now look like I’m a zombie having a seizure.
Fucking hell. I’d better switch this up before they send in the emergency services.
Let’s try the Time Warp.
This, if anything, is even harder than the Macarena in this bloody suit.
The jump to the left is difficult.
The step to the right is a chore.
Putting my hands on my hips is impossible, and have you ever tried bringing your knees in tight while trying to stay ahead of a plastic narwhal tusk?
Oh God. Here comes the pelvic thrust.
And I think I really am going insane.
As I crest the top of the long, low hill that the road rolls over, I am thrusting my hips out in front of me, like some invisible force is jerking me along the street towards oblivion.
I look like I’m trying to shag the horizon.
Do I think this will impress Helen Carmichael?
Quite possibly not.
Maybe I’ll tell her and the rest of World Action Today that my dance is interpretive. That I’m trying to describe the plight of our oceans by thrusting my crotch out towards the heavens. That jumping to the left and stepping to the right are in fact my way of highlighting how our governments are sidestepping the issue of plastic waste.
Yes, that sounds convincing.
Very convincing indeed . . .
At least the crowd are having a good time.
They certainly sound like they are, anyway. What with all the laughing and pointing.
I wave back at them, momentarily halting my revival of late twentieth century novelty dances to take in the approval of my audience.
Placcy the Narwhal clearly does not approve of my dancing though, as he chooses this moment to poke me between the shoulders with his tusk.
‘Oi! Bloody hell!’ I exclaim, as I am pushed forward. Lucky I’ve got all this padding, otherwise that might have hurt!
This just makes the crowd laugh even more. I’m not laughing, though. I nearly went tumbling to the ground then.
Ignoring the temporary narwhalian interruption, I continue to Time Warp down the slight incline of the hill, now playing to the crowd for all I am worth.
Going Green Page 20