A.N.D/o-r

By Bing Selfish

Earth and Moonbase 2050. As London wilts under Chinese occupation, a Canterbury Tales type cavalcade of individuals attempt to make sense of the world and further their careers.
Amongst them, a Moonbase catering assistant, the debauched King George VII of England, fruit and vegetable shaped automatons, a couple of ex-popstars, an unpleasant footballer, the editor of The Daily Mail and a host of other equally imperfect characters who have to face and suffer the conniving shenanigans of A.N.D., a ruthless nihilistic gang of terrorists, and the protests of O-R, a noble band of pacifist revolutionaries.
Contemporary art, politics, the world of football, finance, the monarchy are all shorn of their airs in this entertaining tale of pretension and power.
The plot weaves and threads through the lives of the tale's intriguing individuals as their fates coincide and collapse, culminating in a dramatic catharsis up there on that white globe circling the Earth.
Political-satirical, savage, funny.
It's the future, it's now.........

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bing Selfish
• Release date: Aug 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310785818

Book preview

A.N.D. / O-R

Bing Selfish

A.N.D. / O-R

by Bing Selfish

Copyright 2015 by Bing Selfish

August 2015

An El Frenzy Production

...for life is holy and every moment is precious

—Jack Kerouac, On the Road

Full wise is he that can himselven knowe.

—Geoffrey Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales

The collapse of the French Third Republic in the balmy May-June-July days of 1940 was an awesome spectacle.

—William L. Shirer, The Collapse of The Third Republic

Table of Contents

Prologue

PART ONE

Chapter 1 – Moonbase

Chapter 2 – The thoughts of The Exterminating Angel – Part 1

Chapter 3 – The perfect couple

Chapter 4 – Another character is introduced

Chapter 5 – MTRU

Chapter 6 – Tomatoes ripening in the sun

Chapter 7 - Overload of Drode

Chapter 8 – Offside by a mile

Chapter 9 – The Old Git

Chapter 10 – Ben Block

Chapter 11 – Fat-jowled

Chapter 12 – Pranks

Chapter 13 – More trifles

Chapter 14 – Living the dream

PART TWO

Chapter 15 – King George VII

Chapter 16 – Guilty

Chapter 17 – King of clubs

Chapter 18 – Up the Unction

Chapter 20 - San Gimignano or bust

Chapter 21 – An idea is born and leads to a distraction

Chapter 22 – Art is Life

Chapter 23 – Advantage played

Chapter 24 – All the King’s men

Chapter 25 – Academia

Chapter 26 – Carry on exhibiting

Chapter 27 – Stupid Dome

Chapter 28 – O-R what?

Chapter 29 – Dormouse

Chapter 30 – Arty tucker

Chapter 31 – Away from home

Chapter 32 – Don’t trifle with a truffle

Chapter 33 – Bleeding reading

Chapter 34 – Some developments at Windsor

Chapter 35 – Announcements

Chapter 36 – Introductions

Chapter 37 – Carobo

Chapter 38 – On and On the Road

Chapter 39 – Demonstrate

Chapter 40 – Statue of Limitation

Chapter 41 – Dropping Offs

Chapter 42 – Gentlemen’s club

Chapter 43 – By the River

Chapter 44 – Pondering Imponderables

Chapter 45 – The Cambridge eaves and the Cambridge leaves

Chapter 46 – An uneasy conversation within the confines of a gentleman’s club

Chapter 47 – In money we trust

Chapter 48 – Down the pub

Chapter 49 - The hard stuff

PART THREE

Chapter 50 – The lizard queen

Chapter 51 – Early bath

Chapter 52 – Magnificent Havoc

Chapter 53 – The more you learn the less you know

Chapter 54 – Dimitria’s afternoon

Chapter 55 – A number of Chinese officials gather together to discuss an alarming incident in the British Parliament

Chapter 56 – The thoughts of The Exterminating Angel – Part 2

Chapter 57 – The mood is soured then perks up a bit

Chapter 58 – High up in the stands

Chapter 59 – A merry jig

Chapter 60 – Disorganise and desist

Chapter 61 – There’s a rat in the mouse

Chapter 62 – Call security

Chapter 63 – Oh, poetry, poetry

Chapter 64 - Carrowcrack’s Return

Chapter 65 – tiny revolutions

Chapter 66 – Exam time

Chapter 67 – To sleep

Chapter 68 – Born to be twee

Chapter 69 – Unfortunately coincidences

Chapter 70 – Funny old game

Chapter 71 – The end of the paper paper

PART FOUR

Chapter 72 – Of freedom and its paradoxical nature

Chapter 73 – The monarch is required to address the nation on an occasion of national mourning

Chapter 74 – Future days

Chapter 75 – Food and terror

Chapter 76 – The king and me

Chapter 77 – History lesson

Chapter 78 – Round-up

Chapter 79 - Westminster Cathedral

Chapter 80 – If you say so

Chapter 81 – It all kicked off

Chapter 82 – Many rodents to cross

Chapter 83 – Listen and enjoy

Chapter 84 – There is nothing like a good beating

Chapter 85 - The thoughts of the Exterminating Angel – Part 3

Chapter 86 – And another beating

Chapter 87 – In which a subservient lackey finally decides he has had enough of the status quo

Chapter 88 – Meanwhile back on Earth

Chapter 89 – San Gimignano revisited

Chapter 90 – Personas non grata

Chapter 91 – The Eve of Destruction

PART FIVE

Chapter 92 - The Trip, Part 1

Chapter 93 – The Trip, Part 2

Chapter 94 – The Trip, Part 3

Chapter 95 – The Trip, Part 4

Chapter 96 – A chaotic scene unfolds on the surface of the Earth’s only satellite

Chapter 97 – Setting Up

Chapter 98 – Royal arrangements

Chapter 99 – New tomorrow

Chapter 100 – Here we go

Chapter 101 – Determination

Chapter 102 – The show must go on

Chapter 103 – A penny drops

Chapter 104 – Bitterness turns to wonder

Chapter 105 – Up, up A.N.D. away

Chapter 106 – Other echoes inhabit the garden

Chapter 107 – Shut up in an accumulator

Chapter 108 – A warm welcome

Chapter 109 – A fond farewell

Epilogue

Prologue

After the clock had exploded into a thousand tiny insignificant pieces, The Exterminating Angel and the End of Everything aimed their virtual lasers at the giant glass frontage of the dismal, grumpy, backstreet entrance. The Eve of Destruction and Holy Ghost quickly charged through the crystal debris, blasting to smithereens what remained of the revolving doors. They discharged an equally devastating barrage into the reception desk: it melted glamorously and cinematically before their remote-controlled eyes.

The receptionists and security personnel barely had time to announce the imminence of their mortal extinction through a heart-rending scream. Within seconds they were small puddles of irradiated matter: human lives reduced to blobs.

The Voice of Chaos and The Silent Knight breezed through the bedlam like pebbles skimming a pond: a merry and poetic dance across the finely wrought, choreographed devastation. On arrival at the lift shafts, the two giant balls let loose an obliging volley of ultra-rays. The lifts turned into red-hot boxes of burning terror. The trapped occupants only consolation: a swift, uncomplicated end.

All six glowing globes were on visual: it was easier and more fun if they were able to see each other and there was little or no danger of anybody emerging from the devastation alive. After their bout of introductory mayhem, they gathered at the foot of the escalator, which, curiously, continued to function despite this particular contraption’s deserved reputation for unreliability.

By now those on the second floor were aware that something dramatic and devastating was taking place. How they would have loved to frame the headlines describing the events. How they would have revelled in dense, colourful graphics and highly defined shoots immortalising the aftermath of a cruel, calculated act of vicious terrorism. How they would have delighted in inventing spurious stories of dubious intent, of pointing their pathetic accusatory fingers in the direction of any movement or group that caught their prejudiced fancy.

There was nothing, however, they could do now. The tables had turned, the predator had become the quarry. The deadly terror-balls continued their vicious assault. Sub-editors frizzled; workstations exploded; advertising managers were extinguished; graphics co-ordinators fried. All in a frenzy of desperate, spine-chilling shrieks, screeches and howls.

Wow! This beats a day out at the races, transmitted The Exterminating Angel.

Or hoverboarding on the Norfolk Broads, jabbered an ecstatic Voice of Chaos.

Destruction is invigorating, is it not? shrilled The End of Everything.

It took a mere eleven minutes for their task to be successfully completed. By the time the drodes, the police and the internal security arrived, A.N.D. had reverted to invisibility. The ephemeral balls had disappeared and a final deafening blast had reduced the once proud block to rubble.

Justice of some kind had been meted out to the purveyors of lies. The kind of justice that could only come from the hands of a mad, cruel, vengeful god or someone insane enough to take on the role of a mad, cruel, vengeful god. Not just the guilty but the innocent paid the price: passers-by, shoppers, infants, babies, grandmothers...

A few days later The Silent Knight received a small package through the post. It was from The Eve of Destruction and The Voice of Chaos: nothing more than a piece of cardboard with a brief note, ‘Really enjoyed the party. Looking forward to the fiesta to end all fiestas. See you at the cathedral’.

PART ONE

Chapter 1 – Moonbase

An unsoothing, irritable, low frequency, humming sound assailed Hamish McDougal’s fuzzy ears as he momentarily shifted himself round to a more comfortable position. Nevertheless, he greeted it as a welcome relief to the caterwauling bagpipe type noise that had been reverberating around his brain for the last half hour or so. Bagpipes, highland bagpipes. Why had they been invented? Who had invented them? There was precious little Scottish left in the universe: kilts had long since ceased to be worn, even on festive occasions. Haggis was a mere, celtic trace memory and Irn-bru was only drunk by a small group of die-hard nostalgics who yearned for a return to times long gone. So, why were the pipes still blaring? He continued his quest for comfort, shunting restlessly from side to side. Suddenly, like a bolt of lightning ripping into an exposed tree on a lonely hillside, he realised where he was, and why he was where he was.

It was the old demon booze! A drop too much of the hard stuff had set off an unfortunate and probably regrettable chain of events which had brought him to his present plight: a wearied body lying on a hard, unpleasant, unfamiliar, unaccommodating surface. He moaned, he groaned, every time he made a sudden movement the bagpipes came back. After a brief period of inertia, he slowly hoisted himself up and appraised his circumstances. The pipes receded, the humming sound resumed, it came from outside, probably a dodgy connection in the air recycling system or the pro-grav unit.

Grey was very much the colour of the day: grey walls; hard grey bed; menacing grey chair; a handsome grey cubicle in the corner boasting a graceful, grey toilet bowl. The room could in no way have been described as large. There was no virtual window, only a modest twoD screen embedded on the opposite wall. Hamish pressed the screen. It sprang to life. The charming logo of the Moonbase Temporary Restriction Unit appeared: a crescent moon trapped behind four hefty bars. A characterless, faintly oriental sounding, male voice spoke, Welcome to the MTRU. Please, make yourself comfortable. It may take some time to process your infraction. If you would like something to do, please ask me for books or films. If you want to know why you are here, please do not hesitate to ask. We will be only too delighted to furnish you with the details.

Why am I here? barked Hamish.

The screen went grey for a moment then jumped to a white background. The words ‘infraction report’ appeared in black text. At the same time the dull voice intoned, Serious public order offences...drunk and disorderly...damage to precious artworks and infrastructure...cam evidence plus drode interviews with witnesses and victims...guilty verdict ninety-eight point seven per cent certain...awaiting psychiatric report...a drode will be visiting you soon for assessment...there is no hot breakfast service on this assignment...cold croissant and liquid are available from Slot A.

McDougal spied two bulky indentations in the door marked A and B. He opened the one labelled A. It contained a lacklustre, rubber-like, orangey, doughish object and a pale grey liquid. He addressed the screen, Does this vile liquid have any vitamins in it?

Information unavailable the screen responded.

Why is it unavailable?

The liquid is not toxic and contains no artificial flavourings or colourings. There is no legal obligation to give more information to zens subjected to restriction cells.

Hamish sipped the liquid, It’s strawberry flavour, he informed the screen, Hmmm, yummy.

Recipient’s enjoyment of liquid irrelevant under present circumstances.

Irrelevant, irrelevant, really. Hamish murmured vaguely to the screen whilst once more vainly attempting to make himself comfortable on the hard bunk. He finished off the beverage and drowsily assessed his circumstances: no hint of assault and no use of weapons, not so bad...not so bad.

He wondered what, apart from a large intake of alcohol, had sparked off last night’s belligerent trajectory. Doubtless one of his so-called companions had said something so pathetic or annoying or irritating that in order to restrain his ongoing fury he had drunk himself into oblivion and then vented his pent-up frustration on some innocent piece of artcrap.

It was his first time in the Moon tank. Despite the unbearably irritating and nauseating company of his fellow Moonbasers, up until the previous night he’d always managed to keep himself within the bounds of reasonable behaviour. He wondered if the drodes had responded automatically or if Courvoisier or Marinovicz had subjected him to some kind of zen’s arrest. All would be revealed in due time he concluded and doubtless, after his release the rest of the ‘team’ would not cease to tease him for his drunken antics.

Oh, who cared? Who cared about any of this? Space, Moon, drunkenness, the eternal bickering, the tediousness of existence. The only thing that mattered was the state of his body and his mind: both shot to pieces, both suffering the brutal consequences of a searing hangover. Yes, he felt like shit.

The purring, humming, motor-like sound was beginning to get on his nerves. It sounded like a bunch of insects bickering over the contents of a dead rat’s intestine. He needed something to distract him from his predicament. Well, there was a choice of two he recalled: films or books. The books bit was presumably part of whatever punishment (or Self-knowledge Orientation Practice, SKOP as it was now known), imposed on him when the final assessment was made. I mean who in god’s name read a book these days? What kind of retarded, half-brained idiot would read thousands and thousands of words, one after another, endlessly and remorselessly? What sort of entertainment was that? It occurred to him that at least two of his fellow Moonbasers did actually read books. Real ones, y’know, made out of paper or balsa wood or whatever it was that they were made out of. That wanker, Courvoisier, for example was always at it, and even started quoting bits when he was in a particularly communicative mood which fortunately wasn’t too often. It was beyond Hamish’s comprehension: a concentrated effort of such magnitude for so little payback. Still, for some idiotic, imprecise, nebulous reason, he couldn’t quite put his finger on, he decided to plump for the book option.

Book option, any fucking book, any fucking page.

Any book? Any page?

Yes.

Then why didn’t you say that?

I did.

No you didn’t.

Yes, I did.

You used expletives in a restriction cell.

Oh, fuck off.

There you go again.

So? Fuck you.

And again.

Just show me, for the sake of my hungover sanity, a random page from any old book.

A page appeared on screen. Hamish screwed up his eyeballs, furrowed his brows, in an ultimately fruitless attempt to make sense of the words in front of him:

Most everything had been sorted. We raced on. Baxter, Iowa, where I’d stepped out on that daybreak stroll in 1948. At 2 p.m. we once more went over sleepy Bettendorf and the sunken Mississippi in her sweet wooded couch; after that Moline, a spell of vehicular congestion, the solar orb turning scarlet, and brief views of pretty, charming, feeder waterways gliding smoothly amidst the mystic greenery and...

Oh, why had he ever thought that in his present state reading a book would be of any use whatsoever? Some fanciful whim had led him to believe it would be a bit of a laugh, but in fact it was as bad as those bloody bagpipes which his fruitless attempt at reading had called back up: in all their pounding glory.

Enough of this, a film. A film despite being in twoD, would perhaps distract, amuse or vaguely entertain him. He called up the movie list, before he could make his selection the door opened and a drode hovered in.

Why did drodes look like vegetables he asked himself, and then remembered some dreary story about how long ago it had been decided that they should never resemble humans. Psycho-scientists had discovered that humans found metallic or neo-plastic constructions cold and alienating. Thus, it had been promulgated that drodes always take the form of organic objects but with a different colouring: so as not to confuse them with the real thing. You would imagine it difficult to confuse a large, boulder-size, tuber vegetable floating five feet in the air with the ‘real thing’, but the blue potato occupying a large portion of Hamish’s panorama was living proof of this ridiculous decree.

I am drode one, one, one, seven, H, three, also known as Peter, responsible for all MTRU installations.

You must be a busy, busy, blue potato, observed Hamish.

The drode ignored him, I am also a Grade 3 classified misbehaviour psychiatrist and a grade four probationary facilitator.

Oh yeah?

How are you feeling Hamish?

Great, just great. Can I go for a jog? I’d just love to go for a jog. Please, bring me my trainers.

I am pleased to hear you are content with your present condition, especially as your physical appearance does not appear to coincide with your assertion. Your eyes are blood red and there are deep, crested, heavy, dark bags under them. There is a bruise on your right cheek. Your heartbeat and other physical denominators are all at a distressed level.

Yeah, well, if you put it like that. I do feel slightly under the weather. I’m suffering from over-stimulation, y’see.

No, I do not see. I do not see anything other than a half beaten-up wreck of a human being.

Oh, stuff you, potato head!

I am not a potato head. If you are looking to cast a cheap aspersion at my expense. The expression would be ‘potato being’ as my whole entity is resolved as a potato and not just my head.

Oh, a smart arse. A smart, potato-shaped arse.

The same argument applies to ‘arse’ as does to ‘head’. In fact, relatively speaking I do not have an ‘arse’.

Lucky you. You never talk shit, then?

I believe that is an analogous term. There is nothing to stop anyone using such a description about me, as it bears no more relevance to my actual state than it does to yours. Technically speaking no human being ‘talks shit’ unless possibly an individual with a severe gastric condition, in which case it would probably be most insensitive to utter such a deprecatory phrase.

Hamish regretted having brought up ‘the talking shit’ theme, more so because he had only said it for the sake of saying something stroppy. It didn’t actually make much sense, as the blue potato with a slight Chinese accent had just demonstrated.

Where do you go on holiday?

Sorry?

Where do you go on holiday? I just wondered, where do drodes go on holiday.

I think it is probably time I put my metaphorical foot down and emphasised the point that it is I who asks the questions. Why do you drink Hamish? Do you drink to forget?

It’s none of your business.

Well, that’s not strictly true, is it Hamish? Last night you damaged an extremely expensive work of art, especially created for the Moonbase and offended a number of your colleagues. No man is an island.

Ginger snaps...ginger snaps wandered into Hamish’s frazzled brain. That’s what had kicked the whole thing off. Yeah, that stupid moron Linda Obst had lit the touch paper with her absurd and ridiculous opinion of ginger. He forgot the precise details of the incident but he clearly recalled that opinionated bumpkin squealing, ‘Ginger isn’t hot and spicy, it’s kind of tangy and fruity’. How could anyone, anyone no matter how retarded or German come out with something like that?

The whole point, the one and only undisputed point about ginger was: it was hot and spicy. In fact, for that very reason Hamish didn’t really like ginger or ginger snaps. So, it was normal and understandable and utterly rational that he had completely flipped: verbally abused the gang of stuck-up-their-own-arse Moonbasers seated in the recreation area then stormed off and attacked some piece of crappy Moonbase ‘art’ in order to divert and divest himself of the outrage and frustration provoked by an idiot convinced that ginger, could you believe this...ginger was not hot and spicy. Where would it all end? Chilli: fruity? Vindaloo: icy? Salt: sweet?

Hamish couldn’t be bothered to explain any of this sophisticated dialectic to the drode.

No man is an island but many men are peninsulas connected to the mainland by narrow causeways.

You’re a reasonably intelligent man, Hamish. Why do you drink? Why do you upset the other zens who have tried so hard in their own way to make you feel at home?

Chapter 2 – The thoughts of The Exterminating Angel – Part 1

Leaders, leaders, leaders. How the media collapsed in awe at these pathetic manifestations of a rotten process. They provided such a handy focus for a headline, a shoot, an interview, an exposé. And yet, the number of times they had made a positive difference to the evolution of mankind could be counted on the fingers of one hand. For every Bishop Tutu, Spartacus or wartime Churchill, there were a hundred Hitlers, Stalins, Mao Tse Tungs, Pol Pots, Thatchers, Napoleons, Francos, Mobutus, Blairs.

The Silent Knight could not be considered a leader. A facilitator, an organiser, the arch subversive without a doubt, but all six members of A.N.D. were free to question, overrule, debate. Why people had a need for some pathetic figurehead who would only rob them of their individual dignity, she had no idea. The blind, stupid, brainwashed masses needed awakening. Needed enlightenment, re-orientation. How long more would capitalist greed, military authority, consumerist and cultural slavery persist? Society was a sham. One need look no further than the ease with which the Chinese had exploited Western democracy to further their own self-centred, self-serving ends.

The Exterminating Angel scooped up another spoonful of the reasonably healthy, chocolatey, nutty muesli she had prepared herself for breakfast. There’s something about nuts in the morning she thought. They clear the head, crunch open the mind pores, and all you have to do is pour milk over them. A simple act: pure, cleansing, irresistible... just like A.N.D.

A.N.D. was the answer, A.N.D. and only A.N.D. could deliver the solution. A brutal, liberating whiplash of a solution: the mature and deliberate utilisation of terror and destruction to prepare and point the way to a greater, more sustainable, fairer and beautiful future.

There would be suffering along the way. There would be fear, horror, pain, agony and death. But death was always with us, always waiting in the shadows, swaddling us in its cruel dark talons. Yes, some would have to perish, including most probably her good self, in order that others might live a meaningful and rewarding life. There was nothing wrong with that. No moral dilemma whatsoever.

Artificial rain began to fall gently outside the peaceful domain of The Exterminating Angel’s kitchen. Synthetic droplets splattered on the window ledge with a soothing pitter-patter which despite its origins in avarice, ignorance and egotistic self-satisfaction warmed the cockles of her fateful heart.

As if to confirm her morning musings, she flicked on the holo and began like a demented juggler to toss random cubelets of mindless drivel in the air. A group of morons discussed how dull things were now no-one was bald or wore glasses. News items rattled out: The Colorado and Utah warlords had invaded New Mexico where the local militias were offering up stern resistance; implants although long banned in the civilised world were continuing to be employed in the North American conflict, the tragic dangers inherent in their use were demonstrated daily; Riyadh still under siege; The Chinese-Indian Interest Zone Alliance had signed a favourable deal with Australia. Quizzes, and cretinous game shows vied with great sporting moments and actors bragging on tiresome chat shows: their hollow laughter and tears a ghastly parody of feelings and emotions. Propaganda, all of it: right wing propaganda.

She flicked off, twigged some music. Selfish, of course, whatever he might be now, his words still resonated with depth, feeling and truth: a bass rumbled, a tinkling three/four rhythm driven by jangling guitars and wispy percussion started up. Then, the voice!

Do you remember we danced through the supermarkets,

Danced through the shopping centres,

The Tescos, the Sainsburys, the Morrisons all knew our merry waltz.

The high streets we all know so well,

Are only there in order to sell,

But we were born to love.

Do you remember, we laughed at the system,

We spat in the Natwest, the Barclays, the HSBC, the Lloyds, the Halifax,

All suffered our indignant disdain.

The high streets we all know so well,

Are only there in order to sell,

But we were born to love.

Nothing could stop, nothing could stop,

Nothing could stop,

Anarchists in love,

ANARCHISTS IN...LOVE...

Chapter 3 – The perfect couple

There are those who say there is not much to distinguish one human being from another. When all is said and done, we share the same fundamental needs, hopes and fears. We walk the same valley of darkness, traipse the same weed-strewn paths, scramble across the same muddy ditches. All that separates us is the shadow of a personality and the shade of a memory: they form the delicate brittle shell that protects our pulsating yolk of an ego with its never-ending demands for security, material comfort and pleasure.

Bing Selfish was not against pleasure. There had been a time when he had naively imagined that pleasure, comfort and sensuality could be experienced and enjoyed by all. Experience had demonstrated that this ‘world view’ was neither realistic nor desirable. He had come to realise that some individuals were better suited to leisure and culture than others. A simple insight that made everything a little easier: and what greater insight is there than one that lightens the heavy burden of a minor celebrity.

The material world was simply there to be enjoyed, to be appreciated, to be savoured. Of course, the spiritual stuff was important too, and he did, when it fitted in with his schedule, do his very best to keep in touch with nature. All things considered, when push came to shove, life was a complex and convoluted affair, full of nettles and briers, machine-gun nests and minefields. If one was fortunate enough to have the dandelion seed of fortune and celebrity smack one in the face, then so be it. Let fate and destiny lead.

Some were born to idle their lives away in the Benevolent Blocks. Some to fester in offices and virtual-offices. Some to toil on Global Reconstruction Sites, others to cook, serve and obey. Only a select few, a privileged minority, an urbane elite had the ways and the means and the capacity to exist on a higher level. A level where charm, wit, loquacity and guile sustained an endless flurry of meaningless but entertaining activity. A level at which Bing Selfish thrived.

His was a crafted, disarming personality. A slickly polished product combining stylish exuberance with a debonair, devil-may-care attitude: such traits had been honed and refined throughout the course of his pampered and cosseted, pop-celeb career.

His face was thin, waspish, well-arranged with a cheeky, teasing glint in the eyes. He was clothed in a bright yellow silk shirt, a fine soothing prussian-blue Yuan-Chun two-piece designer suit and black and violet (not purple) checked Giucamote winkle pickers. A dainty claret bow tie added a little fun to the proceedings.

There was more than a hint of the regal as he descended, arm-in-arm with the world famous, Norwegian-Chinese singer-composer, Li Wing Jorgensen, the stairs of that most exclusive of all hotels, The Royal Chonqding Dorchester. Despite the sophistication of the surroundings, its grandeur and allure, the couple still managed to stand out and, like diamonds in a sea of emeralds, grasp the attention of all those in attendance.

The ‘New Arrangement’, had come so quickly, had been implemented at such an intense pace, that many had been caught out in the process of transformation. Not so Selfish. Soon after the fall of London, he had begun to work on his Mandarin. He now possessed a reasonable, conversational grasp of that challenging language. It had been worth the effort, within a short space of time he had been cast as Will Scarlet in a Chinese revival of Lionel Bart’s Robin Hood based musical, ‘Twang’. Although a commercial failure, his performance had led to interest from a number of top film directors including Lin Dai-Yu who gave him the part of Antonio in a remake of Rosselini’s Stromboli.

Set in the Gulf of Tankin on China’s youngest volcanic island, Weizhou Dao, this harrowing tale had won plaudits and much praise from the arty, Chinese crowd. Li Wing had contributed to the soundtrack, and it was on one of her visits to the island location to familiarise herself with the ‘environment’ of the film that the two of them had met and commenced a relationship which established them as an ‘item’ in the eyes of the media.

Thirty journalists, from the trivia obsessed to the oblique intellectual, crowded around the golden couple in the press conference facility chamber. The interviewees were reclined on a carved oak, wild swan, Victorian divan. They looked demure and at ease. Selfish sipped a raspberry, lime, rum and pineapple cocktail, the rim glazed with crispy, sweet demerara sugar. Li Wing toyed with a simple Norwegian spring mineral water. They placed their drinks on a conveniently situated low table. Selfish gave the briefest of nods in his partner’s direction. She returned the coup d’oeil, tossing her locks back with a theatrical swirl as she did so. They turned their nonchalant gaze to the restless throng.

Ladies, gentlemen. Selfish was ready. What can we do for you?

Bing. What brings you back to our shores?

Well, I’ve always loved England and particularly London. It is after all where I spent my idle youth. I’m always keen to pay it a visit whenever I can. The people here are so open, there’s so much going on, and the sense of humour just...just...cracks me up. As well as that, Li Wing... he paused to look into her mystical alluring eyes, ...has a number of projects and ventures which require her presence. It’s a marvellous opportunity to spend time together in a beautiful city.

Will you be working on anything while you’re here?

"Well, now you say it. I am looking at a number of juicy scripts, among them a role in Part One of the adaption of The Story of the Stone by Cao Xueqin: the great tale of Chinese manners charting the glory and decline of the illustrious Jia family in eighteenth century Nanjing. It’s a great script and I’m looking...."

Selfish was about to pursue his ramble, like all thespianish types he liked a good verbal ramble, he was never lost for words, they came gushing out of his mouth like puke from a food poisoned infant, when he was interrupted.

Are you ever again going to do anything in English, Mr Selfish?

Of course, I love acting in my native tongue, even though it doesn’t quite have the depth and the range of inflections of modern-day Mandarin. I’ve got a number of offers on the table, but to be honest, right now, apart from the couple of aforementioned projects, I’m just trying to get away from the stress and pressure of work. I’m doing a lot of meditation and spiritual stuff. Li Wing has helped me so much with that. She’s helped me... transcend my boundaries.

He smiled gently in the direction of Li Wing. He was hoping his ruminations would go down well with her. She had been somewhat moody of late and if truth be told, a little irritating in her total unwarranted dissatisfaction with all and sundry.

His ruse appeared to work, If Bing has expanded his boundaries, it’s because he has boundaries to transcend. I merely gave him a little push towards the horizon of possibilities. I am just a zen like any other, but maybe one who is nearer the call of the oceans and the ever-variable transpositions of the Earth’s underlying sub-structures.

Bearing in mind the intellectual capacities of those present, it was a fairly serious and thought-provoking statement. It summarised the Norwegian-Chinese artist’s earnest take on things: somewhat of a contrast to the flippancy of Selfish.

Will Bing be joining you on any of your new pieces?

No, I don’t think so. We both like to keep our work separate from our personal lives, though of course there are moments when the pain cannot help but permeate through. Sometimes, when I am at a crossroads, I will play him a piece and he will nod his approval or suggest a chord sequence. But, but fundamentally we are engaged in a relationship of reciprocal admiration and interpenetration. We want nothing more, nothing less than to make each other better in every way possible. The fingers of her right hand were entangling themselves in the fingers of Bing’s left hand as she made this touching pronouncement.

A repulsive, ferret-faced woman opened her disagreeable mouth, "Kate Linear from the Daily Mail. Bing, how do you feel about all these dangerous, anarchist groups like the O-R taking up your songs as anthems for their cause?".

It was an awkward question, one that Selfish could have done without. It seemed to crackle in the air with an uneasy, electric intensity. Well...err...all those songs were very long ago. I don’t really understand why these people are interested in them.

"Anarchists in Love is surely a call to arms for radical extremists is it not?"

No...I...I have to disagree with you there. When in that song I spoke of ‘anarchy’, I didn’t really mean it in the political sense. I meant it in a more far-reaching sense, y’know? I wanted to stress the chaos inherent in any love affair, the...the potential for misunderstanding which err...it...I mean...the name was from a novel, I just thought it sounded good.

"The businessmen, we’ll blow them apart is hardly a line open to misinterpretation."

Look! A long time ago, I admit, I did show a certain naivity and ideological innocence...but of course, it wasn’t like I literally wanted to destroy businessmen. I mean, where would we be without businessmen? No, no, I was implying that like all of us, businessmen and women...businesswomen should question their role in society and implement change where necessary.

"And the same reasoning applies to songs like Government of Love, Chicago School of Economics, Everybody’s right wing these days and World without Government?"

"Yes, that’s right, that’s right. Frankly, I don’t really consider those songs an integral part of my ouevre. We’re all on a learning curve, it was only by the time I got to Selfish Soft Rock that I felt I was truly expressing my innermost musical and emotional thoughts."

Thankfully, the Mail woman shut up and the questioning returned to more palatable subjects.

Li Wing, what’s your favourite colour?"

I try not to feel in colours. In many ways they’re a distraction, a blind alley designed to confuse and obfuscate our auras. When I do have to think of colours, I think of the earth. Its browns, off-browns, ochres, marshmallow greys...

Chapter 4 – Another character is introduced

The times choose the people; the people don’t choose the times. It’s as simple as that. Sir Ralph Decad understood what people thought they needed and wanted and gave it to them: on a plate with serviette and condiments. No-one, but no-one, could have imagined two hundred years earlier when the first issue of the Daily Mail hit the stands that in the mid-twenty-first century it would still be a force to be reckoned with. Still be spouting out its petty litany of spite and envy. Still fail to provide a true picture of international events. Still be a thorn in everyone’s sides except of course at election time when it would always come down in favour of the reactionary option.

Despite the changes and seismic political upheavals that had scurried across the face of the planet like a nasty case of chickenpox, the Mail had stood true: sticking through thick and through thin to its daily diet of cod-morality, diatribe, superficiality and house prices. It was a formula much loved by a disturbing number of bitter, prematurely aged, blinkered, chip-on-their-shoulder clumpheads. Like it or not: it was a formula for success.

Decad possessed a smug face,