He’s in a tough spot now. Days and days of 80s music, even if they do start to play the good stuff. Prick has to get out of Portland. But how, when Clementine’s place is completely surrounded.
Scottish left, pro-Indy, pro-LGBTIQA
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Transcript
The incessant drone of “Don’t You Want Me” was, by morning, beginning to fray even my Mary Jane cushioned nerves. Another dawn, another day under siege by Trump’s beige fascist brigade, soundtracked by the most aggressively upbeat, yet utterly despairing, hits of the 80s. The way music should be… though a plaintiff saxophone or trumpet would definitely have improved much of what The Human League plinked and plonked about.
I was ready to move on. I am an A grade gonzo reporter and I needed to journey into the deepest heartlands of Trump-ism, the dark, dusty south of MAGA country. The well manicured golf course of Maralago. This genteel standoff in Portland, while charmingly surreal, wasn’t quite fulfilling my gonzo quota for abject American madness.
“We can’t stay here indefinitely,” I announced, addressing the assembled company, who were mostly still in various states of undress and consciousness. “The feeds, they need… more. Further south. To the threshold of chaos and insanity. To Fat City.”
Luthen Rael, or rather, Stellan Skarsgård in his utterly convincing method-acting persona, stroked his chin. “Indeed. A tactical withdrawal is necessary. And I believe… I have a solution.” He gestured towards a large, rather dilapidated barn at the far end of Clementine’s rambling garden. “Clementine informs me she has… a rather unusual antique concealed within.”
A Sopwith Camel. A genuine, honest-to-God, single-seater biplane, looking as if it had simply wandered off a set of a First World War epic. The Farsi-speaking backpacker, upon catching sight of it, let out a joyful cry and immediately began to tinker, his hands moving with surprising expertise over the aged engine. Luthen, meanwhile, was already formulating a plan. “We create a diversion. A surge forward from the protesters, drawing their attention. A clear path for our… airborne asset.”
“I can fly any bloody plane!” Chuck declared, suddenly appearing, still radiating a faint green glow from yesterday’s mescaline. “I was John Travolta’s right-hand man when I was a Scientologist, don’t you know? Learjets, Cessnas, 747’s… the whole nine yards! Piece of cake!” I suppose a sober me would decline his offer… but America was keeping me in the zone. Wide awake, yet surrounded by fireworks, fluff and strange looking blue cats I had taken to ignoring. They disappeared if I topped up with ether. Having said that, they were replaced by pink bats darkening the sky. I was glad to be inside, with our defensive line of disco dancing rats on skateboards, and Clementine’s 12 bore.
The fuckers continued their relentless ‘80’s indie disco for another two quite pleasant nights, the ICE agents steadfastly piping in more music, which was becoming rather good. All of Echo and the Bunnymen’s albums, including the one sans Ian McCullough, Wah!, The Associates, Lush and even the rarity of Never Never, by the Assembly. It was during one affecting play of The Cure’s “Friday I’m in Love” that Clementine and Reggie approached Chuck, their faces unusually earnest.
“Chuck, darling,” Clementine began, taking his hand. “Reggie and I… we have a proposal.”
Reggie, his remaining cataracted eye gleaming, nodded. The explanation made my heart sink, but then rise again, as I comforted myself with the fact that I couldn’t make every octenagerian babe fall for me in this life.
“We were lovers, you see, back in the swinging Sixties. Met at a secret gig The Doors played on Blackpool Central Pier in ’67. I was working front of house for Jimmy Tarbuck, rather a pale little man, who tried too hard, but one must pay the bills. Anyway, Tarbuck and his dreadful entourage caused a frightful dust-up. Charles Hawtrey, bless his utterly camp soul, was being rather beastly to Clementine, throwing barbed comments about her rather avant-garde attire.”
Clementine continued the tale, a nostalgic gleam in her eye. “Reggie, being the hero he always was, insulted Hawtrey’s blue rinse. Made the poor man weep! We fell head over heels, just like that. But then Jim Morrison, the utter drama queen, thought Reggie’s quip about hair was directed at him, his locks and his leather trousers. The Doors bolted, straight onto the train to London for those successful Roundhouse gigs, and we were torn apart, darling. But now… now we’re together. And we want you to preside over our marriage. To unite us, officially.”
Reggie coughed what really could have been his last, “We want to start a family!”
Reggie’s abiding hope could indeed bring together a beautifully movement. We needed more of this.
Chuck, momentarily stunned out of his mescaline haze, blinked. “Preside? Well, I do believe in unions. And frankly, this campaign needs a good human-interest story. Perhaps… an accompanying podcast?”
“Podcast?” I interjected, my journalistic instincts twitching. “I’ve already got one! ‘Ungagged.’ For precisely this sort of… gonzo reportage. You, Chuck, must be my first interviewee on your ‘Manifesto for America’!”
And so, as the strains of The Smiths’ “There Is a Light That Never Goes Out” filled the house, Chuck stood between Clementine and Reggie, who held hands with a tenderness that belied the surrounding chaos. Chuck cleared his throat, a theatrical flourish even in his inebriated state. “By the power vested in me by… by the cosmic consciousness and the inherent right to happiness… and, uh, possibly the state of Oregon, if I haven’t forfeited my congressional powers… I now pronounce you… utterly committed to each other, in the face of all Trump-ite fascist tyranny!” He raised his hands in a grand gesture. “You may now… well, you already have, haven’t you? Carry on, then!” The kiss, went on, for a very long time.
A very… long… time…
…
Very long.
…
Time.
…
“Oh Reggies having one of his naps!” Clementine laid him softly snoring on the step, stepped over him and said, “Righto, boys I’ll get the mic!”
Chuck and I then proceeded to record a short, podcast update…
(Sound of static, then a slightly muffled, slurred voice, accompanied by faint clinking of glass)
PRICK: Welcome to ‘Ungagged.’ I’m Prick Knobinson, reporting from the very heart of the counter revolution… or the fascist take over… or both. Schrodinger’s American Dream. We are currently under siege in a charmingly booby-trapped Portland abode, surrounded by the forces of, shall we say, fucking outrageous fascism. My guest tonight – or perhaps this morning, time has rather lost its meaning – is none other than the legendary Congressman Charles ‘Chuck’ Finnegan! A man whose very existence is a defiant middle finger to the Trump regime. Chuck, a pleasure, old boy. And do help yourself to the Jameson.
(Sound of a bottle clinking, a gulp, then a wheeze, followed by a cigarrete lighter flicking and a long inhale)
CHUCK: (Voice booming, slightly echoey, a distinctly drug-tinged) The pleasure, Prick, is… cosmic. We are here, aren’t we? Trapped in the very crucible of freedom, while the Trumpite boot, that polished, plasticine heel of oppression, tries to grind us into… into dust motes of compliance! They don’t understand, do they? The vibrations! The collective yearning for a world where every sentient being can, you know, glow! These tech bros, with their algorithms and their data-harvesting tentacles… with their islands of safety and escape plans to Mars, they’re building digital chains, man! Chains of… of fuckin’ shimmering beige. They want to replace the grand, American dream with a boot… a Trump-boot to go with the cheap made Trump watches and Melania Coins… stamping on every freedom-loving soul! It’s a conspiracy of death! A fascist algorithm of despair!
REGGIE: (A dreamy, distant voice…) Rather like Geoffrey Palmer’s trousers, Chuck. So… beige… so pressed. Such a pity.
PRICK: (Slightly more slurred now, with a faint sniff) Fascinating, Chuck. Truly. And what, pray tell, is your ‘Manifesto for America’ in the face of this… this digital and religious oppression? And do pass that delightful little line of medicinal powder, if you please. One must maintain one’s focus!
(Sound of a quick sniff, then a deeper inhale from Chuck)
CHUCK: (Voice now sharper, more intense, almost vibrating) We’ve had a wedding here today. One in which two gorgeous creatures at last came together for their final act… liberation of their hearts, at last! A fight back, hand in hand, tooth by tooth… Our programme, Prick, is… ‘liberation, at last!’ We must dismantle the invisible walls, the psychic prisons built by… by the purveyors of lukewarm lattes, red hats and surveillance capitalism! We shall re-establish the sacred connection between man and… women, women and women, man and man, man, women and women and women two men and a wife.
… We will arm the spirit! We will… we will make freedom tangible again! Like a beautifully potent hallucination, visible to all! We’ll tear down the Silicon Valley fortresses and build… build fields of pure, unadulterated possibility! Where every worker, every biker, every swinger, every… every loaded soul… can dance without fear of… of algorithmic judgment or likes!
REGGIE: (Muttering, slightly off-mic) The boss knows the algorithm… of happiness… maaaan…
PRICK: Thanks Reggie, my dear boy, ever the arbiter of truth! So, Chuck, essentially, you’re advocating for a… a psychedelic swingers revolution, with union representation at weddings?
CHUCK: (Thumps the table, a distant clinking of Jameson bottles) Precisely! A revolution of the soul! A rejection of the… of the beige! We will make America… glow!
(Sound of a door opening suddenly, followed by a clear voice)
BACKPACKER: (Urgent, in Farsi) آماده!
CHUCK: (Jumps, startled, then grins wildly) Ready! He feels it! The cosmic calling! The camel! The Sopwith Camel of liberation AT LAST!
We must go!
PRICK: [Sighs, a sound of profound resignation] Right then, dear listeners. It seems our interview, much like the very fabric of the American Dream, is being abruptly… ripped apart and binned. The revolution, it appears, is airborne. This has been ‘Ungagged.’ Stay… well, stay un-beige. And for God’s sake, be wary of atavistic authoritarianism. Or something. (Sound of more static, then abrupt cut)
Outside, Skarsgård, in full Luthen Rael mode, was already directing the protesters with an economy of gesture that spoke volumes. He conjured a clear path, an impromptu runway through the cheering throng, leading directly to the somewhat ragged looking Sopwith Camel.
Goodbyes were a quick, chaotic blur. Clementine kissed Chuck and Chuck kissed Reggie, declaring him “his favourite husband.” Reggie, teary-eyed, pressed a packet of digestive biscuits into Chuck’s hand.
And then, with a final surge of adrenaline, Chuck and I clambered into the cockpit of the Sopwith Camel. Chuck, surprisingly adept, fired up the engine with a roar that momentarily silenced the surrounding chaos. We had an old map, a bag of cash (courtesy of the “Finnegan for President” bucket), a bag of various uppers and downers, a bottle of Jameson, a bottle of London Gin, a bag of Dungeness crabs and a packet of digestives for sustenance. We lifted off, leaving Clementine, Reggie, the Farsi-speaking brightspark (who was quite obviously the true genius here), Luthen Rael, and a cheering, indie-pop-soundtracked crowd below. Destination unknown, but one thing was certain: the revolution, in all its freak powered, drug-fueled glory, was truly airborne. Liberation, at last, indeed.
And the ICE man suddenly, half way through Depeche Mode “See You,” changed the genre to grunge…
