ICE, ICE, Knoby!
ICE have found the gang again. With the interjection of superstars & legends can Prick keep avoiding El Salvador?
“Bloody hell, America. Your utter need for madness just keeps getting fucking weirder.”
Transcript
Dawn broke over Clementine’s cosy abode and we found ourselves in the company of a particularly unwelcome hangover guest, all flashing blue lights and the insistent drone of helicopters. Peeking through a gap in the ivy-choked window, I observed a scene of what I realised was utter siege. A phalanx of what could only be ICE agents – looking remarkably like stormtroopers who’d lost their way to a particularly grim fancy dress party – surrounded the property. Alongside them, a gaggle of frantic media types jostled for position, their lenses trained on our precarious sanctuary. And then there were the protesters, a burgeoning crowd chanting slogans that ranged from the straightforward “Free Chuck!” to the more esoteric “No More Beige!”
“Clementine, my dear,” I slurred, my head still swimming in a delightful cocktail of last night’s Jameson and a lingering whisper of Amytal, “why haven’t these… these heavily armed ice lollies stormed the barricades?”
Clementine, looking remarkably unfazed as she sipped a mug of what smelled like a good green gunpowder tea, simply gestured towards a series of crudely painted signs festooning the perimeter fence. “Darling Prick,” she drawled, her voice a gravelly purr, “a woman of my vintage learns a thing or two about self-preservation. Those little notices warn of strategically placed booby traps. Mostly old paint cans and tripwires connected to particularly noisy wind chimes, but they don’t need to know that, do they?”
The chanting outside intensified. Emboldened by the growing support, Chuck, clearly still orbiting several celestial bodies thanks to the previous night’s indulgences, decided the world needed to hear his truth. He clambered onto the steeply pitched roof, looking like a demented scarecrow silhouetted against the grey Portland sky, and launched into an hour-long tirade punctuated with cheers from the gathering crowds…
“Freedom, you goddamn corporate whores!” he bellowed, his voice echoing across the neighbourhood. “They want to steal your dreams, these tech-bro fascists with their algorithms of oppression! They want to replace the American dream with a steel-toed boot stamping on your goddamn faces! Mark my words, they’re building digital chains, harvesting your data like goddamn Soylent Green for their silicon overlords!”
Inside, Reggie, with the assistance of our bewildered Farsi-speaking friend, was engaged in a surprisingly animated FaceTime conversation. Oprah’s beaming face filled the screen, both Reggie and the backpacker enthusiastcally nodding at her labelling them as “Lieutenants of the revolution.” Backpacker’s language barrier remained, but the universal language of enthusiastic gesturing and Reggie’s random bursts (to the laughter of Oprah’s audience) of “Its under your seats right now!” seemed to be carrying the day.
My own moment in the media spotlight arrived via a rather blurry Zoom call with Channel 4 News back in Blighty. Nursing a lukewarm slice of pizza and delicately picking at a Dungeness crab salad proffered by the ever-hospitable Clementine, I did my best to convey the utter horror of the situation. “This… this Trump fellow,” I slurred, struggling to focus on the tiny green light of the camera, “a truly piss-stained specimen. We are, as you can see, besieged. Low on supplies, though Clementine is a veritable culinary miracle worker, even under duress.” Just as I was about to elaborate on the existential dread of running out of decent gin, a wave of undeniably catchy 1980s indie-pop washed over the house. The ICE agents, in a stroke of truly inspired (or utterly clueless) psychological warfare, had deployed a playlist of New Order, The Cure and Sonic Youth. Far from breaking our spirits, however, it merely prompted Reggie to start an impromptu new-wave dance party in the living room.
Then, the truly surreal occurred. Clementine’s landline rang, a shrill, old-fashioned jangle. I asked Cathy to wait a sec while I answered. “It’s for you, Chuck! Some Boss bloke with a gravelly voice…”
It was Bruce – calling from a stadium in Europe packed with 60,000 screaming fans. Chuck was quickly off the roof and on to the blower and patently overcome with emotion, burst into tears and into a rather off-key rendition of “The Streets of pretty Portland,” sung to the melody of “Streets of Philadelphia.” Springsteen, his voice warm and encouraging, joined in for a verse, declaring to the world that our amphetamine-fueled road trip was “the beginning of the fightback! The true American heroes – the goddamn workers -the bikers – the loaded – are rising up!” The stadium seemed to erupt and the crowd was chanting, “CHUCK FOR PRESIDENT!” What in hell’s name had a few New York drinks led to? Did we do this, or did America?
Meanwhile, Clementine, looking every bit the formidable matriarch, patrolled the perimeter fence with a 12-bore shotgun casually slung over her shoulder, her gaze unwavering as she locked eyes with the masked ICE agents. A bullhorn crackled to life. “Ms. Fortescue! We need to negotiate a peaceful resolution for Congressman Finnegan!”
Clementine, after a thoughtful drag on her suspiciously herbal-smelling cigarette, agreed. “Alright, you chicken breasted twerps. I’ll allow one intermediary onto my land. Unarmed.”
A figure emerged from behind the ICE lines. Tall, enigmatic, with a world-weary gaze… to my utter amazement it was Stellan Skarsgård. I hadn’t seen him since that night in Hackney, when the club ran out of tequila, and he and I raided an off licence after it had closed… But this was not just Stellan Skarsgård the actor. Ever the method actor, he was Luthen Rael, straight out of Andor, striding onto Clementine’s property with an air of quiet command. Skarsgård, an actor with such gravitas, he steals, rewrites, chews, and spots out every scene he is in and he was attempting to do that here, and yet again for the Republic. Without a word, he began to assess the situation, his eyes scanning the house, the perimeter, the bewildered ICE agents. The fightback, it seemed, had just acquired a very capable, very stylish, and very fictional strategist.
“The revolution has escaped. It is no longer here. It is everywhere…” he said in his steely, gravelly Swedish accent.
The air crackled not just with indie-pop and political fervor, but with the distinct possibility of a rather explosive and improbable revolution. Bloody hell, America. Your utter need for madness just keeps getting fucking weirder.
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