Up on the pyramid stage The Kittens of Chaos,
accompanied by Consuella Starcluster the tambourine virtuoso, were performing a
selection of their favourite bits from ‘Prestupleniye i Nakazaniye the
Musical’, in which the nihilist Raskolnikov is encouraged to get out more and
is introduced to vodka and fornication by the 6th Form students of
Madame Sofia Semyonovna Marmeladova’s Academy for Young Kittens. Following on
from the conclusion of their act the bemused audience was subjected to a poetry
reading by Ginsbergbear.
“I
have written a haiku,” he announced:
Haiku
Cake
left in the rain.
Prince
Albert teapot; it nev-
Er
reigns, but it pours.
…and, oh so much later:
Your Mum and Dad
They
muck you about
With
a bottle of stout
And
a pig in a poke
Like
the funny old bloke
That
Mummy said to call uncle
And
Dad with his fags
After
nocturnal shags
They’re
wondering why
You’ve
contracted a sty
Or
forged on your bum a carbuncle
“The
fault isn’t ours”
Your
old pater glowers
“We
had parents too
Addicted
to glue
And
fans of the songs of Garfuncle”
After
a long and embarrassing pause there came a dramatic fanfare from the recently
bruised Massed Pit Bands of Federated Nottinghamshire joined by the Brick Lane Zapatista
Mariachi Walking Wounded, and Larry stepped up to the mic.
“Ehem…”
Before
he could speak he was surrounded, silently, by the serene men of the Himalayas,
their yak skin coats dragging on the floor. The group moved to the front of the
stage, parted and revealed, to everyone’s astonishment, Mad Jack Belvoir (Bart) with his ward, the fair, and now
heavily pregnant, Pricilla. Gone was the up-tight uniform of the 3rd
(King’s Own) Hussars, his once magnificent handlebar drooped into a bushy
Zapata mustachio and he wore a loose, grubby Kurta shirt over baggy candy
striped trousers. He appeared unkempt, undernourished, and yet he was fire-forged
steel, tempered in the acid bath of global perambulation.
“Friends, we have all come a long way
since you and I faced off against each other on the Cable Street barricade.
Pricilla and I have travelled far, crossed desert and mountain, swum in
turquoise seas, basked on crystal beaches, begged in shit-strewn shanties. We
have studied at the feet of masters. I want to talk to you about the future. We
are (most of us, I hope) groping towards an ill-defined anarchist utopia, an
earnest utopia with co-ops and federations and communes and unions and
autonomies and endless discussions at the Street Moot and the Factory Moot. It
is a worthy utopia for born-again socialists, reformed capitalists and the
recently oppressed. But remember, just a short stride across the green from the
Moot Hall is the Mead Hall. The sailors and ships’ cats and corsairs and
doxies, these Ranters and punks, won’t be content with such seriousness alone.
There must be fun, and dancing and a little mayhem too. One day when we have
our Anarchy, modified and reshaped from our earliest visions, when we have our
justice and fairness, we will look out towards a new utopia, a utopia for
anarchists, for men (and women and cats) who are already free, already
fulfilled. With joy as of little children and unfettered imaginations we will
lust for a glorious future without limits; what a vision that will be.”
As
Mad Jack paused for breath Larry stepped quickly back up to the mic. He was
still somewhat put out and prickly.
“Friends.
It is possible that Citizen Belvoir has a point… or two. I was about to suggest
that we representatives of diverse groups, many of whom have travelled far to
hammer out our differences, adjourn to the Ranters’ Moot Hall and forge a
concord that would guarantee peace and prosperity for all time. It is what we
had planned, why we are here. But I, for one, am having too much fun. Who cares
about differences? It is a glorious day; let us celebrate our commonality.
Return to the beer tent and the dance floor; strike up the Mariachi. Sod
tomorrow, we are surrounded by friends.”
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