Reloveution
[I wrote this for a friends' birthday, there are some in - jokes]
Philias Marl is a Professor in Socio-political History Studies at the University of West Connelton. He is kooky and shamelessly involved in three student societies, including the society for silver jewellery making.
“Ok class,” Marl announces, straightening up his notes, “now, compared to last week’s lecture on the symbolic use of Pigs in German governments, today we shall focus upon the role of romance in the revolutions of twenty first century Britain.”
Two young, dark-haired women, sitting in the side seats of the lecture hall and scrolling through Sinstasnapagram, quickly sit up and press the side buttons off their Eyefoams.
“And I’d like to begin first of all,” Marl continues, “by sharing a short story. Imagine this:"
"It is two zero two seven, an autumn day. The October the 5th, to be exact. There are more people than leaves circling the chewing-gummed concrete grounds of Trafalgar Square. The rain starts to fall and crowd of beer-bellied Londoners begin their attempts to push a giant plastic pomelo off of the fourth plinth. (It was a symbolic art fixture advocating for Fairtrade between China and Europe. The Mayor of London’s culture team also love Pomelos and postmodern art).
‘Long live the Queen! Long live the Queen!’ The crowd screams.
At the time of the event, Britain is divided (not that it was ever truly united) and it has been so since the last three days. October the 2nd, to be exact.
These crowd of pomelo pushers, huddled together on the left (ironically), are fascist nationalists. They are the ones shouting the long-live-this-and-that and they mostly white, bald-headed (moon) heads. As rain continues to pour, like steroid ants, they work their tiny gym-pumped biceps, to roll the art fixture off of the snooty art plinth. Yes, it is a must that Moonheads hate giant symbolic art fixtures of fruit.
Then come a herd of florescent chests.
‘Show’s over guys, the show’s over.’
Sure, herds of police people try to stop the Moonheads destructions but only lightly, with fluffy smirks.
An annonymous student cries from the back seat of the lecture hall: “Shame!”
“I agree,” Marl responds, taking a sip of water, “fluorescent chests remain as a giant segment of societal shame. Now let’s continue.”
Standing on the right (ironically), opposite the Moonheads, are the Colourful Tribe. They are flag-waving, pram-bearing, salad-box holding nun-hands with a lust for any kind of societal change (morally good and/or bad). But unlike the Moonheads, they are not shouting. Instead standing patiently, as though waiting to whiten their already pearly smiles in the basement of an inner-city dentist, they behold clipboards as their only weapons. Compared to the Moonheads, the Coulourful Tribe display no masculine aggression or arm muscles.
‘Excuse me,’ the Colourful Tribe attenders ask the strangers nearby, shuffling around in their broken shoes in gangs of four or five.
‘Would you sign my petition? We don’t know what exactly we are fighting for but we know that it’s really important in this terrible political climate of such little peace. Please? A signature or, any kind of sympathy you may have for our cause would really help in a way that is not immediately apparent or explainable right now.’
Strangers, having been approached so politely, do give the Colourful people the smiles they need but to their dismay, they rarely touch their pens to sign their lengthy petitions. Besides, it was only three years after the global pandemic of the deadly ink-borne disease. Remember, Birovirus-22?”
Marl takes another sip of water and looks around. There is only a stillness amongst the audience of flicky hair-do’s and red and black woollen hats.
“Birovirus-20? Anyone?”
Faces, each propped with different shades of hands, quickly stop chewing penlids but still give no response.
“Ok,” Marl announced, “then we continue.”
“The spectacle of the falling of the fruity art fixture is peculiar and later gave the name to this event as the Great Pomelo Protest. However, except the pomelo, this happening is really of no unusual sight. Trafalgar Square throughout the ages has been the witness to many very British and very dichotomous protests and until the twentys, it was estimated that, on average, there were more than seventy thousand political marches organised each day in Britain. Amazing, right!”
The faces stare blankly and had returned to chewing penlids.
“As you will see from your readings, some thinkers argue that one unique factor about the Pomelo Protest, is that the fragility of the British monarchy. They say that at the very moment of protest, it was in one of its weakest states. However, I argue in my latest book, if you (please) take the time to read it, is that the same thing could have also been said seven years before when it was publicly announced that Prince Harry, even in his teens, was the chief monetary head of the international child trafficking industry. I conclude therefore that, although the Great Pomelo Protest must have been an absurd experience to witness - the plastic pomelo, the Moonheads, the colourful clipboard folk - there was not much about the ‘great’ Pomelo Protest was entirely abnormal. Take a look at this photo for example – screen flashes. From above, I mean from BBC radio drone perspective the 5th of October two zero two zero, was only another (d)rainy day in London.”
“But what is unusual about the Great Pomelo protest, if you look closer at the photo here, are those two specs situated in between the Moonheads and the Colourful Tribe.”
Marl points his AK28 electronic lazor beam towards the projected image.
“Look, zoom in: do you see them? That’s right, it is what it looks like, two lovers dressed in bedsheets and a fur blanket. And do you see this small rectangular splodge of aztek here? A whisper from the front. Exactly, spot on Klarissa. It’s a double bed topped with a funky duvet spread. And you see, circling them, there is a splattering of seated bodies and instruments? Well, you may have heard of this group before. That multi-coloured suit-wearing crowd born of the 90s, were otherwise known as the the Regional Dreamers.”
“Ahh…”. A sea of student heads suddenly arise and nod together in a unified realisation. Marl smiles at his correct prediction; that mentioning this band would appease his young leftist audience.
“Now, let me zoom in a little more. Ok, so here we have the bed. And on the bed, if you can see, are the two lovers. And I know what you’re thinking: Sir, we have already learnt about John and Yoko. But I will tell you now, these two are different. Not only had Sir Lennon been murdered by this date – lecture hall drowns in gasps – these two, unlike the sixty’s children, are by no means revelling in fluffy harmonies. Not only had 69-style bed-ins already drifted out of fashion by the twenty twenties but also soft romance and pillow talk and soft romance was considered too intimate and too unproductive during the post-postmodern era. So, what, I hear you ask (audience silent), was going on with these two?”
A hand raises. A young male, blonde, wearing a brown corduroy shirt and Swedish rubber clogs.
“Yes, go ahead Eric.”
“I believe from my readings Sir that this couple were both artists and members of the Middle Ground Meritocratic Team, otherwise known as the MGMT. They are an example of enlight...”
“No Eric that is entirely incorrect and, in any case, a much too objective answer for University level. Now moving on and back to our story:
“To the outside observer, this pair are having ‘a domestic’. Although laying in bed together, scantily dressed and occasionally licking each other’s earlobes, situated in between the mini war between the Moonheads and the Colourful Tribe, this couple are arguing, some have said, far more fiercely than any protester in the square. Let’s imagine (all the people, living life in peace) what they may have said.”
One lover screams to the other. ‘Suffering is necessary and anyway, inevitable!’
‘Then I declare you have never seen any real pain or beauty in this world,’ the other hisses back, in sheer dissatisfaction.
‘Well, you must misunderstand me then.’
‘No, you misunderstand me!’
“You see? It goes on like this. Endless, cyclical blamings with each disagreement accompanied by political and/or philosophical memes being flashed up, of course, upon the screens of their X17-Knowbiles. So how then, I ask you (audience silent), do these fighting specs of love, laying on a stained mattress dragged out from an over-priced rented room in Hackney, change the course of British history?”
“Ah yes, Eric again.” Marl permits, noting to himself to never again ask retorhrical questions when Eric is present.
“I am wondering Sir, from the reading that you gave us by Rajarni, if this is the moment in Britain where the idea of radical love enters conceptions of Political thought?”
“No Eric that is entirely incorrect and, in any case, a much too objective answer for University level. Moving on and back to our story.”
“After four and a half hours, with a final push, the Pomelo in its mighty plastic presence, rolls off its podium and down the declining streets of London. The Moonheads therefore succeeded in their protest against the erections of giant post-postmodern art fixtures in Britain. And this success, by the way, should come as no surprise to you. As you should have noticed from your readings so far, quite evidently, fascist groups of the twenty-first century had much higher probabilities in bringing around radical, albeit conservative, change. There was Trump, Florence Given, Richard Branson, Dyson Hoovers… the list is long. Anyway.
As the pomelo rolls, every protester stands watching. The giant plastic fruit is seen to reflect in their pupils as city cars and buses swerve out the way of its path. However, surprisingly, the pomelo crushes no person or animal on its journey. It only flattens a small sandcastle constructed by two young girls: ginger-haired twin sisters, to be exact. Eventually, the art fixture reaches the Thames, floats out to sea gracefully toward Southend-On-Sea and on route, passes a pruned fisherman living on a harboured concrete boat in Benfleet who was later reported to have fired metal pellets the giant floating thing with a shotgun. This fisherman, named Neil, to be exact, later claimed that he had mistaken the pomelo for a water rat.
Back in Trafalgar square, at the sight of their squashed sandcastle, the ginger twins begin to cry. And at this sound, protesters too, both Moonheads and Colourful Tribe, weep into their opposing political flyers. Everyone, as we can see from this next photo of the bare fourth plinth, begins to realise the damage that resulted from their adultish arguing. ‘When the children of our society cry, who even cares about the British Monarchy?’ That was the title in Globalist Squad Collumn the morning after.
The couple too, having been disturbed by the booming vibrations of the rolling pomelo, by then, had also lessened their shouting. However, unlike others, instead of truly weeping, they sob in confusion at the stupidness of it all.
‘This life is so rare.’ One lover says to the other.
‘I agree.’ The other replies.
And on this agreement, their first since the six years, they together pull over the yellow aztek duvet over their slinky bodies and begin to sing something that went like this:
‘Pomelo moon, pomelo moon, we’ll see you soon, once we clean our rooms…’
“Now class, I’d really like it if you can all help me out with this. I will continue singing and please do join in.”
The heads of the lecture hall slouch between the fold out seats as Marl passionately continues.
“Pomelo moon, pomelo moon we’ll see you soon - come on class!”
In sympathy, a quiet murmuring of embarrassed voices respond.
‘Pomelo moo.. pomelo moo, see you…’
“Well this is pathetic,” Marl declares, unusually pissed off. “I continue with the story.”
The crowd of weeping protesters - the Moonheads and Colourful Tribe - creep around the singing lovers as they - deep breath – as they each reach underneath the bed to behold two child-sized guitars that, conveniently enough, had remained dry from the city rains. In folky rhythms, they play a M-chord then an S (classic moon blues) and then a funky Brazilian thing.
The crowd, almost uncontrollably, hum together and along to the pomelo moon song and not long after, the wailing ginger twins begin to sing too. They each forget the destruction of their tiny but perfect sandcastle and instead sip synchronously from their smoothie juice cups. And to put the glazed cherry upon the shitty dollop of whipped cream, in a holy timing, the rain recedes and makes way for an extravagant rainbow that which begins, quite sensibly, at the dawn of time and end, oddly, at the entrance to the Houses of Parliament (natural propaganda).
So, there we have it class: the end. There is us (watching from the future), the rainbow and everybody else.
The hand again. Marl sighs, more obvious than hoped.
“Yes, Eric?”
“Do you believe Sir that the rainbow signifies the need for God and other unexplainable matters within modern political structures?”
“That’s an objective question, Eric. Please attend my office hour this week - floor seven, room ninety-three – and I shall respond to you with a subjective answer then. Now moving on before we have to leave.”
So class, to conclude, these lovers are the most radical example we have today of a twenty-first century couple. Like us, like anybody, they were fools and, like both the Moonheads, Colourful Tribe and Fluorescent Chests, they gambled around aimlessly trying to find meaning; sometimes their hair was long and sometimes it was short. Sometimes they fought and sometimes they sang songs. Yet regardless, beyond it all, with their words and acts of bedly rebellions, they beheld a razor love that cut clean through political egos and earthly matters. To be in bed and in-between it all, they demonstrate that only hardwired fools choose one side to be on. And to sing easy rhymes and play blues chords, they showed that music was a much more efficient way to ignite peace. And most of all, aggressively or not, they talked. They talked an argued but aimed to tear down structures of any sort or even worse, bureaucratize thought. Despite the disagreements, they ensured a warm duvet and a fur blanket was thrown over each of their shoulders. And that is love, my dear class, and it was the very small thing that redefined Britain’s conceptions of left and right, wrong and right, read and write and red and white. So, any questions?”
“Ah Eric, full of questions today aren’t we?”
“Sir, I am just wondering what happened afterwards, I mean, after their protest, and to the lovers, I mean. And if their romance did really have any effect on society? I ask because that is the theme of today’s lecture, isn’t it? The role of romance in the twenty-first century British revolutions?”
“Well Eric, firstly well done for finally asking a question that allow me to answer subjectively. I believe, as a Professor of Socio-political history, their romance did in fact have a profound impact on the way the next generation tackled political issues. Some people (who are not Professors by the way) have argued differently and have claimed instead that history only repeated itself afterwards, like the hands of a clock face. However, my overly hopeful mind finds that far too pessimistic a case. The point of this lecture is that I believe that this story of the lovers was important and that I myself have taken the hardy task to dedicate the last two years of my life writing about it. I am, of course, that Kooky academic that every student in this University loves, isn’t that right class?”
The audience cheer and throw their chewed up penlids towards the stage in applause.
Eric slumps in his chair, unsure of how to match Marl’s bearded confidence.
“And Eric, I’ll have you know,” Marl waits for the audience to quieten, “that a story of love, no matter how objective you may want to make it, cannot in fact ever be understood objectively. The lovers were arguing for a thousand reasons and the appearance of the rainbow was to remark a thousand symbols!”
“But Sir,” Eric arises, “doesn’t that mean that all of us here in this room have heard a different version of your story?”
“Exactly Eric, that’s why everyone is cheering! Can’t you see it, that behind every story in history it is possible to envision hope?
“It makes sense but not in my head.” Eric replies, the only one in the room still chewing a penlid.
Marl sighs. “I’d like to make it clear to you Eric that the important thing is not the thing nor place nor even person a story may concern. What matters is the story that is perceived from a story. That is what changes people and the course of history.”
Eric nods slowly, his mind rolling away like the giant pomelo.
“And is that the same for love, Sir?”
Marl shuffles his papers, slightly embarrassed, signifying the end of his lecture. “That, Eric, is a question far too subjective for a lonely Professor like me to answer.”
Missing From Historical Record:
‘I love you,’ one lover said to the other, before continuing to sing the pomelo moon song.
‘I agree, I love you too,’ the other replied.
‘It’s so nice to agree.’ They smiled.
‘Pomelo moon, pomelo moon, we’ll see you soon, once we clean our rooms.’
‘But wait,’ one lover paused in their glorious harmonies. ‘The whole let's ‘clean our room’ thing: Isn't that a Jordan Peterson rule? I thought he was a mysogynist?'
And suddenly – DONG – the bells of Big Ben strikes twelve.
Playlist
God Save the Queen - Sex Pistols
Volunteers - Jefferson Airplane
Rolling Around - Guadalajara Joe
Mango - Pomelody
Time (You and I) - Khruangbin
Us and the Rainbow - Babe Rainbow
Rainbow (We Only Have A) - Pomelo
Razor Love - Neil Young