I decided to spend ten days off my tits with fever, and then most of March struggling to breathe, and then half of April self-isolating while I downgraded my cough from persistent to lingering to socially awkward. It’s been frustrating. But I’ve been up and about for a few weeks now, and the old nagging feeling that I should be doing more is kicking back in.
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As long-time readers/fans/stalkers of The Zero will recall, I recently became fully obsessed with trees. Trees are a relatively recent innovation in which upright wooden cylinders are placed beneath a cluster of small green photosynthesis machines, to both produce oxygen and unproduce carbon dioxide.
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The problem with being an international treasure is that the eyes of the world are always upon me, ever on the lookout for gossip, scandal and signs of hypocrisy. When Emma Thompson joined the first Extinction Rebellion protest she was actually murdered for travelling there by plane. When Greta Thunberg had a climate summit to get to she had no choice but to stow aboard a pirate ship, finding herself stricken by scurvy and rickets and under constant attack from the living dead. And when I drive my car to work I’m attacked on all sides by Fury Road cosplayers flinging fireballs, chains and buttplugs at me for daring to use the odd drop of petrol.
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As we barrel full-speed into the climate apocalypse, wilfully removing our species from the earth because we like making money, eating meat and driving places, it may be worth reflecting that ripping up trillions of trees and covering 106% of the earth’s surface with concrete has had some unintended consequences. Top of the list, for example, would be how we’re barrelling full-speed into an actual fucking apocalypse.
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You’ll recall how, during one of many recent relaunches, I found myself terrified by the Inconvenient Truth movies and committed to doing more to avert the coming apocalypse. We agreed while I was just short of nailing environmentalism on the personal level I was barely half-assing it on the local level, and using a tiny speck of ass on the global level.
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Like most of you, when I first saw WALL-E I assumed it was a documentary and was relieved to find we had at last discovered a solution to the madness of short-term landfillery. However, on attempting to contact and marry EVA, Pixar security guards informed me not just that I would be charged with breach of the peace but also that the film was a work of speculative fiction.
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As with many hells, the road to veganism is paved with good intentions…
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It feels like about eight years ago now, given the outrages since, but last week Donald Trump flew in, was rude to everyone, indulged in a bit of white supremacy, played golf for the 121st time since he barged into the White House, and fucked off to his Russian handler to dabble in a bit of light treason. All pretty standard for him. But this time he was met with a bit of resistance.
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With Trump’s assault on the environment, as well as on truth and decency and the first amendment and women and Muslims and Mexicans and African-Americans and disabled people and footballers and school children, and really anyone who isn’t him and that one daughter he wants to bone, we are hosed unless we do something ourselves. And it’s going to take a lot of somethings, and all of our selves.
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Cards on the table, gang: I’ve spent most of the last 18 months off my tits on painkillers. Not to a Jacko/Prince/stomach-pump degree, but enough to take the edge off my do-gooding and let evil have its way with the world. It’s no coincidence I was out of it when Brexit Brexitted and Trump trumped, when white supremacists showed their faces again, when Nazis rebranded and all manner of clusters were fucked.
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Whoosh! That was the sound of a Lost-style flashback there. We’re cutting back to a key moment in my retirement, one that will initially seem unrelated to present events but will gradually connect to my A story to a point where you go, “Huh. Okay”.
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Devoted as you are to yer man The Zero, and as closely as you monitor my good works, you’ll be aware I do the odd bit of fundraising in spite of hating it almost completely. The past few years I’ve been meddling with Yaknak Projects, a small charity set up by a few friends to run two children’s home in Nepal. They need £16,000 a year to keep the homes running, a delightful spot of constant pressure that cheers them greatly.
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