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  These days giving birth underwater is very fashionable, middle-class mums will travel to France and spend a fortune so that some hippy French doctor can grab them by the tits in the shallow end of a school swimming pool. The theory seems to be that the warm water is highly reminiscent of the womb, so you drop your sprog in the pool to comfort it. Of course, your average womb hasn’t normally had a class full of little boys pissing in it a few hours earlier and the acoustics of a cold meat storehouse. Also few wombs are lined with luminous white tiles and administered by a bloke who’s a dead spit of Adolf Hitler, except for the mop and bucket. None the less, apparently the awesome transition from Mum’s tum to big bad world is less traumatic if done via the local baths.

  Dave’s family had been giving birth underwater for generations. But not for them the sanitized safety of a Jacuzzi and a French quack with a degree in being groovy. There were no doctors present at this birth, just two midwives, not professionals, friends, but friends who had done it before lots of times. There wouldn’t be a problem. No birth is easy but as they go this one wasn’t too bad. Dave’s mum heaved and strained, the midwives coaxed and prodded about a bit to help ease him out and eventually he came, breech born, head last, but in perfect nick. The umbilical cord was broken pretty sharpish, as is necessary, and the midwives swam Dave to the surface in order that he might take his first breath. This is how dolphins are born.

  27: DEATH OF A STRANGER

  Very little is known about dolphins — by humans that is, probably dolphins themselves know a little more. However, enough can certainly be guessed at for them to be raised far above the level of ‘dumb animal’. Their intelligence, ability to communicate and social interaction are so clear that it seems reasonable to assume that they also possess personalities, feelings and emotions. Despite the genocide that has been wreaked upon them, they still seem to bear humanity no ill will. In fact, there are countless stories of dolphins aiding humans in distress. Documented instances of them warding off sharks at their own personal risk and also of nudging the unconscious survivors of shipwrecks to the shore. These, like the practise of midwifery, are not fanciful human inventions but the facts regarding another race of beings.

  One day Dave was swimming about minding his own business, when he was caught in a fishing net which, despite possessing a phenomenally sophisticated sonar system, he had not noticed. After a brief and desperate period of thrashing about helplessly, Dave drowned, unable to get to the surface for the oxygen he required.

  The net was made of a revolutionary new nylon that is lighter and stronger than previous nets. It is also undetectable by dolphin radar. Bill had been pleased with the development. He had been a crucial cog in the research team that had come up with a very slightly more efficient and profitable way of going fishing. You can’t stop progress and, after all, it’s only a few dolphins.

  28: THE PURSUIT OF LOVE. THE DINNER GOES ON

  29: DREAM DATE

  He picked Rachel up in a cab. CD did not drive and Rachel wanted to drink. The memory of her recent bust and straining licence was fresh in her mind and she was taking no risks.

  CD was wearing a cream three-piece suit, wide lapels and slightly flared trousers. Flares keep threatening to make a comeback and so to CD’s mind he looked five minutes ahead of the next fashion, rather than ten years behind the last one. CD was a true optimist.

  He had added a CND stud earring for style, also to confirm his character as a committed activist and finally because he believed it made him look swarthy and romantic. His aftershave was seriously whiffy and the cowboy boots, newly polished (right round to the heels as well) were a walking dream.

  ‘CD,’ he said to himself as he contemplated his reflection in the broken wardrobe door, ‘you are a love rocket, primed, charged and already requesting flight clearance from mission control.’ He was, indeed, a true optimist.

  When Rachel opened the door CD nearly lost his cool and blasted off there and then. She was orgasmic! Sauciness beyond his wildest dreams! — and CD had had some pretty wild dreams. She had on a little black cocktail number and the baddest suede, pointy, red shoes you ever saw. CD nearly flipped when he noticed they too had metal tips. Was this a sign? Of course it was; they were as one. Rachel wore nothing else, no jacket, no tights, it was a real hot night and it was getting hotter by degrees as CD’s mercury threatened to burst out of the top of his tube.

  ‘No rush, the guy’s meter’s running,’ said CD who was in much the same position himself.

  ‘I’m ready,’ replied Rachel.

  CD nearly fell over — down boy, down! This was more than he had dared hope for! What sort of phrase was that to use at eight-thirty! The temptress, the teasing, taunting, tempting sauce bucket! Clearly she wanted him, that much was obvious, wanted him badly. ‘I’m ready,’ she had said…God that was fast work, this lady wanted it all and she wanted it now. Why else would she put it that way? She could have said anything…she could have said…uhm ‘we can leave immediately’ or…well anything, but no, she said ‘I’m ready.’ Said it? she breathed it. If that wasn’t the old green light to oblivion thought CD, he was a stupid wanker. And, of course, he was right. It wasn’t and he was.

  30: TURNING GREEN IN LA

  It was, without doubt, the longest dinner it had ever been Sly’s misfortune to attend.

  Festel had begun to speak, the head of a Norwegian chemical consortium. Here was a man with a monumental contempt for the common good. A man proud of his record that despite the numerous compensation claims that resulted from him putting poorly test’ed drugs on the market he had never paid out a single penny. He remained oblivious to the anguish of gangs of mothers holding up babies with no legs or torsos.

  It was widely believed that Festel had personally arranged the framing and imprisonment of an employee who had threatened to expose the way his company rushed drugs onto the market. And yet, to Sly’s astonishment and anger, this same man suddenly seemed to have turned into a sort of wood-nymph, Pan-like figure, desperately concerned for the pastoral balance of the planet. He pointed out that fifteen million trees were felled every twenty-four hours in India alone. The resulting soil erosion was almost visibly creating deserts. What was more, without the forests there was a terrible danger of catastrophic flash-flooding.

  India? Sly was at a loss to understand why he had flown all the way to LA to whine on about trees in India…Bastard probably owns property in Delhi, he thought.

  Trunk spoke next. Trunk was a car man. He had been a colossus in motoring for over thirty years. Hence few had been closer to the vanguard in the battle against legislation on lead- free motoring than he. Trunk had fought it tooth and nail, lobbying politicians, obstructing research, deliberately encouraging his own technicians to distort their findings in order to produce ambiguous results. This, despite being well aware all along of the terrible toll that lead emissions take on growing bodies and minds. Trunk’s motive in all this had been the fear that other manufacturers might not take on the cost of the retooling required and of the slightly more sophisticated engines. He could be left on his own with the other bastards selling slightly cheaper cars. Rather than risk this, he had tried to stop the whole idea. This was the metal of the man Sly now heard bleating on about sneezing seals and how some damn mammal or other was choking on its own phlegm.

  Sly knew all this, he read his Sunday colour supplements, everybody knew about pollution, so what? One thing was for sure, if he had come half-way round the world to be asked to join some damn top-snob, green charity whinge for tax loss purposes, he would tell them to stuff it up their arseholes.

  Lord Playing, the British tobacco giant, spoke up. Here was a man who was presently denying, on his mother’s grave, that his company had been sure about the connection between tobacco and lung cancer since the mid-fifties. Denying that he had personally suppressed the findings and harrassed independent researchers. But now this same cynical man was shouting down Festel claiming that it was the salination caus
ed by the rise in the water-tables that was the most terrifying aspect of the death of the forests. ‘And where is the oxygen to come from, without trees?’ the tobacco king added.

  The whole evening sounded more like a gaggle of green Euro MPs having a whinge than a cabinet meeting of the World Government of Money. It wasn’t that Sly disapproved of worrying about the environment — he didn’t like having to swim round clusters of old rubber johnnies when he went for a dip in the sea, any more than the next fellow. But what had it got to do with them? Jesus, if they wanted a donation why hadn’t they written to him? Sly was no longer simply disappointed, he was angry. If there was one thing Sly couldn’t stand it was whingers.

  31: A QUESTION OF PRINCIPLE

  In the cab Rachel had asked if CD was a vegetarian. It was a very tricky moment. What to reply? CD loved meat, his idea of vegetables was tomato ketchup. He was the sort of bloke who reckons not fishing out the bit of gherkin in your hamburger counts as eating your greens. But what did Rachel think? Was she a veggie? She was into peace, but that wasn’t conclusive. Jesus had been into peace but he never said anything about having to eat rabbit food or multi-grain when you fancied a hot dog. What should he say? People were very touchy on this subject. If he said no would she throw red paint over him and say she refused to share the same cab as a murderer? Those animal rights activists did not mess around. He didn’t want the first time Rachel visited his place to be when she came round to put dog shit through his letter box. CD knew these people. Once, at a folk concert, he left his jacket on a seat and some bastard had written on it in lipstick: ‘There used to be a dumb animal inside this leather jacket. There still is.’ The annoying thing had been it was only imitation leather. Served him right for going to a folk concert of course. But, how to answer? Maybe she wasn’t a true fanatic, maybe she was a conscience-stricken would-be veg, that was worse. That would mean a mind-numbing, tedious six-hour discussion on degrees of personal responsibility.

  ‘Well, I’m prepared to wear leather shoes but I wouldn’t personally harpoon a whale.’

  ‘I’m basically a vegetarian, it’s just I get this craving for half a pound of bacon every morning.’

  There were so many opinions on the subject, so many chasmic pitfalls to be circumnavigated. It’s all a question of degrees. Some people are quite happy to eat a raw chicken stuffed with a couple of shoals of fish but consider it an offence against God to toy with a chop. Others would eat anything, great steaks dripping with blood, raw suchi, sausages, bloater, black pudding, haggis, unwary family pets, anything, and yet would call the police if they caught you even considering veal.

  ‘You know how they make it don’t you? They tear the baby cow foetus from the mother then artificially fatten it by feeding it napalm and electrocute its testicles to make the meat whiter, then cut its head off and stuff it up its arsehole while it’s still alive!!!!’

  People just take their pick on the subject of vegginess, draw their line where they feel like it. It’s not about conventional morals. Hitler, after all was a veggie, but he didn’t mind cooking Jews. There is absolutely no logic on the subject, but you cross people at your peril.

  ‘Are you a vegetarian?’ she had said it so simply, so casually, as if it was of no consequence.

  No consequence! Ha! As CD squirmed and writhed and desperately tried to compute the chances of various answers being acceptable, he knew that his entire sex life could be hanging on his reply.

  ‘Because I fancy a hamburger,’ Rachel continued.

  He could have kissed her.

  Neither of them had much money and there was only an hour until the film and so they decided to dine at Slampackers. They did this knowing that it would probably make them feel sick, knowing that the stuff had much the same effect on the complexion as napalm had on North Vietnam and also knowing that it was absolutely delicious and they could just fancy one.

  32: CRUSHED IGUANA

  They studied the enticing menu, with its dazzling array of choices. Cheeseburger, cheeseburger with salad and sauce, double cheeseburger with twice the salad and twice the sauce. Curiously there was no Iguana or fruit-fly on the menu. No open-ended list of as yet undiscovered life forms but, indirectly, that was what CD and Rachel were consuming.

  Thousands of miles from where Rachel and CD stood there had once lived an Iguana. Had that Iguana still been alive it would have wept to see that facile menu (obviously being alive wouldn’t have been enough, it would have had to have been able to read, and speak English…and Iguana probably don’t cry anyway, but whatever…).

  The Iguana, and millions like it, and millions more unlike it, for a tropical rain forest contains a wider variety of life forms than any other environment — with the possible exception of a sleeping bag at a rock festival — all these life forms had died in the service of Slampacker. They had been consumed along with the slice of gherkin smothered in secret recipe sauce.

  Iggy had been chewing a fly when he first felt a tremendous rumbling. At first he thought that the fly must have disagreed with him and that he himself was responsible. But then the rumbling got louder and more terrible and Iggy realized in his little lizardy brain, that something was wrong. He knew his own bottom and no way was it capable of producing flatulence that was clearly going to feature on the Richter scale. This, Iggy sensed, was an approaching disaster, and of course he was right, which was no comfort at all. Being right is not as good as being alive. Suddenly Iggy found himself surrounded by plummeting species. Species which he had never seen before. Shaken from the various life levels that the forest houses were many creatures as yet undiscovered by humankind. Creatures that never would be.

  They don’t cut down trees anymore, it’s too slow. They blow them up, or push them over with bulldozers. This was how Iggy and his host of little forest pals — whom Beatrix Potter would probably have called things like Simon and Jemima — met their ends, under bulldozers. For such is the demand for beef that the global hamburger addiction has fuelled that the rain-forests, which provide oxygen and change the weather, are being bulldozed down to create short-life pastures.

  Besides the obvious undesirous side-effects, can be added the fact that much of science and medicine is derived from plant and animal research. It’s just possible that the undiscovered cure for cancer went splat the day Slampacker sent Iggy to join Dave the dolphin and Mrs Pastel.

  33: IDENTIFYING THE ENEMY

  Sly’s mind was in a spin. He wanted to punch their faces and shout: ‘Shut the fuck up about the environment!!’

  Tex Slampacker could see that Sly was irritated by the discussion. ‘Look here, boy,’ he barked, ‘you know my burgers?’

  Sly did indeed know them for although he could have afforded to eat an elephant full of caviar every lunch-time without going to the cash machine, he still secretly craved Slampackers and scoffed plenty.

  ‘Well, hell, we all know what the damn boxes are doing to the ozone layer, Christ I wish we’d never developed the damn things,’ he continued. ‘But we did and those boxes mean I don’t have to pay anyone to wash up dirty plates. I am faced with a cruel choice, gentlemen. Voluntarily cut my profits by re-introducing crockery, or subject the world to the risk of skin cancer.’ Tex Slampacker was deeply affected by this awesome moral confusion. Just framing the phrase ‘voluntarily cut my profits’ had felt like swearing in church. He was a hard man, not easily upset, but some things offended his conscience.

  34: CASE FOR THE DEFENCE

  That was it for Sly, he’d heard enough. He jumped to his feet. He was angry now. To think he had respected this man. ‘Cruel choice, Mr Slampacker? Cruel choice?’ he snapped, surveying the assembled company with that famous Aussie squint. This was his money-making look and with it Sly could have sheared the wool off a sheep’s scrotum if he’d thought there was enough on it for an egg cosy. ‘Forgive me, mates,’ he said, fist in hand, the good old boy, teaching the highbrows horse sense, ‘but I see no choice here, I see no dilemma. Clearly we have a
question of morality to face, gentlemen, and I hope we’re men enough to take it on.’

  It would be a brave bookmaker who would have taken odds on that one but Sly wasn’t leaving room for hecklers. ‘Look we’re all bloody sorry about the trees, of course we are, but people want the wood for Christ’s sake! What can we do? You don’t force them to buy your damn burgers!! The laws of a free market economy are sacred and we are guardians of those laws. Strewth, mates, you can’t bugger about with market forces, that’s social engineering, gentlemen, Brave New 1984 and all that. Your average bloke doesn’t want some little Hitler from the ministry telling him what he can and can’t buy! What he can and can’t make! For sure it’s a shame about the sneezing seals, and the birds with mouldy armpits, and the ozone layer, a bloody shame, and Christ if anyone’s passing the hat round I’m in for 10K towards cancer research, no worries, but you can’t stop progress and progress is marketing.

  The faces around the table remained inscrutable, Sly had no idea how they were taking his little lecture but he didn’t care. He wasn’t closing his aerosol factory until it stopped making a profit. ‘Listen, Mr Slampacker,’ he continued, ‘if you didn’t use those boxes some other bugger would and then where would you be? I’ll tell you, mate, hanging out in the sun to dry with the wombats using your hat for a toilet. Meantime the ozone layer’s still fucked and the other bastard’s building a private dermatological ward to get the malignant melanomas chopped out of his arse. Gentlemen, we can’t weaken, it would be a crime to interfere with the sacred laws of free enterprise simply to protect the environment. Do that and what do you get for an encore? I’ll tell you, some green cop telling you you can’t take a piss in your back garden because it upsets the ants.’