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