Rather than, I don’t know, shutting the fuck up and realising he was a boring cunt who was incapable of even keeping an imaginary caricature of a reeking, stupid man entertained.
The conversation about dogs gives Monbiot ‘Nam style flashbacks to when he was a bright eyed, bushy-tailed little fucker; trailing anarchists round like a confused, abandoned pedigree puppy. Apparently, camping out with the gyppos and anarchists wasn’t as easy as simply tally-hoing, pip-pipping and what-whatting like in the Famous Five books. He mentions that as he and his chums showed a group of travellers basic courtesy, they “…must have thought they had died and gone to heaven.” It’s there. In black and white. George Monbiot and his liberal pals were so nice to the gypsy fuckers who everyone else hates that they, according to him – to his very words – must have felt as grateful as if he were God on High unlocking the pearly gates of Heaven itself.
It’s a wonder he never got seriously twatted; the silly, silly man.
This anarchist fella was apparently one of a pair of brothers who kepts dogs on ropes or something, in the old days near as gypsy camp. Near the abandoned haunted mine. All of the dogs called Bullseye. They all hated the preening pipsqueak Monbiot and his chums, and wouldn’t be mates. Monbiot and pals got all butthurt but it was okay, as eventually his other mates the rozzers came round.
He praises the police for eventually sorting the “problem” of the ungrateful anarchists who wouldn’t be mates out, and then, as some sort of denouement, springs it upon the reader that the poor, dirty man he has been sneering about for the last page or so is wearing a coat he lost, back when he originally was hanging around with the guy.
George, even if that imaginary man took your coat, doesn’t it say a lot that in the intervening years he hasn’t discarded it? As in, maybe he needed the fucking thing; while it took you countless painful minutes of forced conversation and a massive fake flashback before you even remembered the imaginary coat you lost?
If I were to somehow, horrifically, end up with the same thinking patterns as Monbiot, I would have to stop ever reading the Guardian, as one of their columnists is a lazy, stereotyping hack. I would have to change my entire politcial compass and stick to wanking off over Royal weddings in the Telegraph. Because someone was mean, once, and they and their mates are in with the Guardian. Fuck that noise. Monbiot’s crappy little OP was the final nail in the coffin of me turning by back on mainstream liberalism.
And it was an actual event that actually happened.