The Great Whale Conspiracy
"They say he didn't have an enemy. His was a greatness to behold. He was the last surviving progeny, the last one on this side of the world."
I knew as early as midnight on January 1st that 2006 was going to be a strange year. I was standing in the living room with my family and some street people that had somehow found their way into our private gathering. We were singing Auld Lang Syne, and I was somewhat relieved to find myself holding hands with the only two people in the house that knew every word. It meant I could get away with mouthing random nonsense without my lack of New Year's spirit being questioned. The flipside to this blessing was that one of the hand-holders was a woman named Sue, whose arms were covered with tattoos applied by drunken amateurs using rusty needles and thread dipped in Indian ink. Sue had staggered into the kitchen screaming for cider earlier that evening, and although we had seen her as an amusing curiosity for a while, it was clear to me that many members of my family had since crossed the line between mirth and fear...
Yes, I remember it clearly now. That was the moment when I realised that - like Wally The Whale - we were headed into unusual waters.
Most people were tickled by the presence of a baby whale in the River Thames. I was not. Quite the opposite, in fact. I have seen enough and done enough to know that marine life straying from its natural habitat is almost always an ominous occurence; a prelude to times of darkness; a harbinger. Wally's foray into the capital brought the city to a screeching halt. Grey-suited Commuters lined up with wide-eyed children along the banks of the Thames, pointing and laughing at the whale as it struggled in the shallows. The media dropped its hoodie-wearing folk devils, its tales of child molesters and lenient sentencing, and its hounding of a bald Swedish man named Sven, rushing to cover the front pages with pictures designed to make people say things like: "Awwww...wook at da widdle whaaaale."
Indeed. For a few short days, the nation was gripped by Wally Fever, and when political forces unknown loomed large over the crippled Liberal Democrats, nobody paid it much attention.
In a sense, this story started last year, when Michael Howard led the Conservatives to what a lot of people saw as a victory in The Most Boring General Election Since Time Began. They didn't win, of course, but their minor resurgence was enough that Howard could vacate his position with his head held high. What followed was a well-publicised leadership battle won by the comparatively young and hip David Cameron, whose sweeping changes have been met with raised eyebrows and muted approval amongst his contemporaries and the mainstream press. With Tony Blair and New Labour now caught in a web of unfulfilled promises and growing dissatisfaction, Cameron's increasingly dynamic Tories are beginning to look rather attractive to those people who never really wanted to vote for Labour in the first place. In fact, a recent poll put the two main parties on a par in terms of popularity.
Still, everybody knows that polls don't accurately predict election results, just as everybody knows that the trend since '97 has been of disillusioned Labour voters getting behind the Lib Dems rather than the Tories. Of course, the fact that portly Charles Kennedy recently stepped down as Lib Dem leader after the shocking revelation that he likes a drink or two won't have done much to hold onto those voters. Neither, for that matter, will yesterday's revelations about Lib Dem home affairs spokesman Mark Oaten, thrown to the wolves following an affair with a rent boy. The 'third party' has fallen on hard times, and the timing couldn't be better for David Cameron.
In beaching himself so close to the houses of parliament in the hours before his death, could it be that Wally The Whale was trying to tell us something? Leah Garces, of the foolishly-named Whalewatch, seemed to think so.
"It was almost as if he was an ambassador or martyr for his species," she said, and I found myself shaking my head at the television. Wally had clearly left his own kind behind in order to deliver his message, and we - animal loving fools that we are - had ignored him.
Wally is dead now, and it was only after his demise, as I sat contemplating the idea of Prime Minister Cameron, that the final twist in this sorry tale was revealed. The whale that had struggled so valiantly in unusual waters was, in fact, a girl.
"Wally has no willy," giggled The Sun.
We are doomed.
I knew as early as midnight on January 1st that 2006 was going to be a strange year. I was standing in the living room with my family and some street people that had somehow found their way into our private gathering. We were singing Auld Lang Syne, and I was somewhat relieved to find myself holding hands with the only two people in the house that knew every word. It meant I could get away with mouthing random nonsense without my lack of New Year's spirit being questioned. The flipside to this blessing was that one of the hand-holders was a woman named Sue, whose arms were covered with tattoos applied by drunken amateurs using rusty needles and thread dipped in Indian ink. Sue had staggered into the kitchen screaming for cider earlier that evening, and although we had seen her as an amusing curiosity for a while, it was clear to me that many members of my family had since crossed the line between mirth and fear...
Yes, I remember it clearly now. That was the moment when I realised that - like Wally The Whale - we were headed into unusual waters.
Most people were tickled by the presence of a baby whale in the River Thames. I was not. Quite the opposite, in fact. I have seen enough and done enough to know that marine life straying from its natural habitat is almost always an ominous occurence; a prelude to times of darkness; a harbinger. Wally's foray into the capital brought the city to a screeching halt. Grey-suited Commuters lined up with wide-eyed children along the banks of the Thames, pointing and laughing at the whale as it struggled in the shallows. The media dropped its hoodie-wearing folk devils, its tales of child molesters and lenient sentencing, and its hounding of a bald Swedish man named Sven, rushing to cover the front pages with pictures designed to make people say things like: "Awwww...wook at da widdle whaaaale."
Indeed. For a few short days, the nation was gripped by Wally Fever, and when political forces unknown loomed large over the crippled Liberal Democrats, nobody paid it much attention.
In a sense, this story started last year, when Michael Howard led the Conservatives to what a lot of people saw as a victory in The Most Boring General Election Since Time Began. They didn't win, of course, but their minor resurgence was enough that Howard could vacate his position with his head held high. What followed was a well-publicised leadership battle won by the comparatively young and hip David Cameron, whose sweeping changes have been met with raised eyebrows and muted approval amongst his contemporaries and the mainstream press. With Tony Blair and New Labour now caught in a web of unfulfilled promises and growing dissatisfaction, Cameron's increasingly dynamic Tories are beginning to look rather attractive to those people who never really wanted to vote for Labour in the first place. In fact, a recent poll put the two main parties on a par in terms of popularity.
Still, everybody knows that polls don't accurately predict election results, just as everybody knows that the trend since '97 has been of disillusioned Labour voters getting behind the Lib Dems rather than the Tories. Of course, the fact that portly Charles Kennedy recently stepped down as Lib Dem leader after the shocking revelation that he likes a drink or two won't have done much to hold onto those voters. Neither, for that matter, will yesterday's revelations about Lib Dem home affairs spokesman Mark Oaten, thrown to the wolves following an affair with a rent boy. The 'third party' has fallen on hard times, and the timing couldn't be better for David Cameron.
In beaching himself so close to the houses of parliament in the hours before his death, could it be that Wally The Whale was trying to tell us something? Leah Garces, of the foolishly-named Whalewatch, seemed to think so.
"It was almost as if he was an ambassador or martyr for his species," she said, and I found myself shaking my head at the television. Wally had clearly left his own kind behind in order to deliver his message, and we - animal loving fools that we are - had ignored him.
Wally is dead now, and it was only after his demise, as I sat contemplating the idea of Prime Minister Cameron, that the final twist in this sorry tale was revealed. The whale that had struggled so valiantly in unusual waters was, in fact, a girl.
"Wally has no willy," giggled The Sun.
We are doomed.
posted by Michael at 4:42 PM
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