As I wandered alongside London's grim,polluted mistress, a portly,be-spectacled stranger propositioned me with an offer I could only refuse but not ignore.
'Would sir like to get in touch with his inner ape ?'
All true, except for the sir and the faux Dickensian waft; he was wearing a black nylon hoodie - adorned with a red logo announcing 'The Rise of the Planet of the Apes.'
I have left the grimmest bit of this invitation to fun,'til last.
He gestured at a large enclosed pen/climbing frame that wouldnot be out of place in a zoo. It was mostly already filled with similar 'keepers' some with video cameras, but there were people in there as well, those who they'd already lured off the street,all of whom were in various stages of play.
I didn't need to be asked twice - I leapt in the cage threw off my clothes and began to pelt those outside with my own excrement. Followed by vigourous public onanism and aggressive sexual harassment. Admittedly I have made it sound easier than it was. I was chased around the cage by guards. Fortunately they lack my climbing skills.
My point is this, in his novel Seeing, the author Jose Saramago describes an electorate who refuse to participate in the political system which serves not them but the interests of a political elite. The bemused political class only eventually realising that they have been utterly by-passed by a society that finds ways to exist and express themselves without them.
So that when David Cameron announces how tough he's been with his veto.
Or there is an utter failure to reach agreement in Durban about climate change. Or wise heads comment on the foolishness of the RBS takeover of ABN Amro, long after the event. Surely we should take to the outdoor spaces and express our disinterest faecally.
