Just another weekend in the capital
It was a dull Friday morning, and I was in the process of attempting to write the next part of Decline and Fall‘s monumental comparison of East and West London (these things take time; unlike Time Out, we like to do stuff properly) when the Editor suddenly emerged from his cubicle with an expression of some excitement. We should really make that door lockable from the outside, I thought.
“Have you seen the news?” barked the Editor.
“I am the News,” I replied, checking that the escape route out of the office was clear. Luckily the Editor seemed to let this one pass him by.
“We have a monumental London-based story in progress,” he gabbled. “Can you get down to the river ASAP? Maximum coverage, please.” I scowled and flicked open the BBC website. WHALE IN THAMES, it screamed in unnecessarily large letters.
“This is news?” I said incredulously.
“Oh come on,” scowled the Editor. “Look at it. I mean, one of the wonders of the natural world has come right to the centre of London!”
“What, you mean Keira Knightley’s…”
“That’s enough! This story demands seriousness. Crowds are gathering – people are clearly…”
“Yes, very bored,” I said. “I guess it’s incredibly revealing with regard to the true nature of London life, in that case. OK, OK, I’ll go.”
I collected Poppy – she had little knowledge of the natural world but seemed like the member of staff most likely to appreciate that kind of thing – and somewhat reluctantly headed towards the nearest Tube.
Fishy
“I don’t really see how sitting in a bar will get us anywhere with the story,” said Poppy, as we sat in a bar about fifty minutes later.
“Hush!” I said. “There are a number of advantages. One, can you get excellent mojitos sat on a Thames bridge? I think not. Two, is it remotely as warm and comfortable sat on a Thames bridge? Nope.”
Poppy grimaced and adjusted her trademark badly-crocheted bobble-hat.
“Three,” I said, warming to my theme. “Are we surrounded by crowds of gawping clodpolls in here?”
“Well, to some extent,” squeaked Poppy, eyeing what looked like a group of lunching recruitment consultants. I frowned.
“Well….four. This is already looking like an entirely media-driven phenomenon, don’t you think?” I gestured to a plasma screen in the corner. “Look at the rolling news coverage, already. It’s absurd. It’s delightfully absurd. It speaks volumes about the desperate quest for novelty in our news services.”
“But the whale!” said Poppy.
“The whale has merely found itself as the new focus of our desperate obssession with celebrity,” I said. “It’s just interesting that for the moment it’s centred on a large, slow-moving marine mammal, rather than Jodie Marsh. Though some might argue there’s not a whole lot of difference, come to think of it.”
“Get your hand off my knee,” shrilled Poppy.
When the boat comes in
We continued drinking for a few hours, before heading off, arranging to meet in the same bar the next day. I went back home and wrote some gibberish about the whale in a sparkling, first-person eye-witness style, just to keep the Editor happy. The whole story didn’t really agree with me, though: after all, didn’t large portions of the crowds lining the banks of the Thames happily stuff themselves with tuna caught by a method guaranteeing the death of many of the whale’s close relatives every year? What was it about whales that was so damn exciting, anyway? Their mere size? Was this then some kind of strange, misplaced veneration of enormous phallic objects? And why didn’t the media seem to be able to agree on whether the whale was called Pete, or Wally, or what? This was most infuriating.
Thoughts of tuna boats soon lulled me into a gentle sleep, however.
“You know,” I said to Poppy the next day, “the last time a whale got into the Thames, they chased after it in boats and killed it. Those mediaeval guys certainly knew how to deal with a news story.”
The news updates continued throughout the day, as promised. “Whale loaded onto barge” was soon succeeded by “whale being taken downriver”, and eventually “whale dead”.
“This is all very symbolic,” I said. “Killed by its own celebrity! This is the best London story ever, I think.”
Poppy didn’t look terribly convinced. “What are they going to do with it now?” she said, looking slightly tearful – she is a sensitive sort of girl.
“You haven’t got a cat, have you?” I asked.