From now on, when anyone is fool enough to ask me what I think about the Royal Wedding, I am going to load up Peter Gabriel’s Sledgehammer and wait for the bit when the plucked chicken magically dances without feathers, without head on its little chicken stage.

Once this is playing, yet before this bit – I shall point to the screen…all the while my voice repeats the words ”Wait for it”. At first this will sound genial, as if I’m allowing them to join in something – the joke or life.

Gradually it will move across the sonic ranges, at one point it will teeter on the disturbingly orgasmic, as if I’m an introverted English teacher stabbing away at the sweat damp disinterested fold of his wife, spit soddenly telling her to delay the orgasm she so lamely fakes.
”Wait for it”
From there it will barrel away across a galaxy of renditions – I will be the sexually disturbed boy his auntie raped asking you, pleading with you, to
“Wait for it”.
Abruptly I will be the Cop who joined the force because he didn’t have any real friends, suspicious even his mother was jiving him – monosyllabic in my robot bark.,
”Wait for it”
Then I will be the punk who insults any other punk who may prove to be more individual than him, waving a can in front of a friend who forgot to wear his full uniform, sneering,
”Wait for it”
I will roll insistently into the whinging pleading child hot footing in front of you whining about the toilet as it pulls and twists strange little five year old bondage knots out of his trousers crotch. The kind you look uncomfortably away from wishing you hadn’t agreed to babysit. The kind you look at wondering what the fuck – do your parents do that at home, where did you learn that – christ fuck I know you’re five but have a little decorum – I mean you’re only giving the paedophiles at customer information ammunition.
”Wait for it”

Suddenly.
I will draw out that last it – from the human to the parody to the alien and into an assortment of clicks, whistles barks and deeply disturbed mooing. All of this will sound vaguely like ”Wait for it”.
Before softly and discordantly machine gunning it, as if someone is viciously rubbing my belly while I try and speak – if only because this is how I think a Mormon sounds when he tries to pray and masturbate at the same time.
”Wait for it”
I will be all voices, all sounds to all things in that glittering three minutes and fifteen seconds.
I will do all this with such staccato rapid fluidity that I will look like the spastic we pumped full of crystal meth, brought to the rave last Sunday and left weeping beneath the strobe light. He was terrified at first, but when the crowd gathered to watch him kick out the jams, I swear to you I saw a big fat tear of gratitude and acceptance roll down a convulsion.
”Wait for it”

Then.
Then it will happen.
The egg will appear, on its little eggy stage. It will do a little eggy dance before being smashed to life by the Sledgehammer.
Then.
And only then.
Will the chicken rise from the stage to bust a move.

I’ll grab whoever was fool enough to ask me about the Royal wedding by the shoulder with my left hand and hold them tight, shaking them as I speak, as I repeat.
“There”
This I will repeat – gradually letting it swamp into some sort of incandescent moan the last intelligible iteration of which sounds only like “Deerrreee”.
I will nod insistently at the monitor, but I don’t think they will grasp the importance of the moment – they might be too preoccupied with the fact I’m shaking them by the shoulder while masturbating furiously – roughly, beneath a hessian sack I’ve emblazoned with a unicorn and lion I expertly drew with lipstick and tears.

I am split.
Forced into written duality.
I have become Svankmajer’s talking heads of dialogue – my two heads spitting, barking and ultimately consuming each other as they try and make themselves heard – force themselves right.
The inner Taoist in me, the finger twitching reluctant spiritualist who can find the ear splitting beauty in the thermodynamics of the Sun and who can be found feverishly praying before its life giving might on a hill…somewhere at the glory of dawn…for that solar flare that will wipe us all clean.
He-she-It in the continuous revision of what and who I am toward some sort of self singularity – Them, they – could never wish harm on another human being.

Fucking apologist.

The other me, the nihilist anarchist punk is also fervently praying. Deep at the altars of madness. Prostrated at the sacrificial stone of rage. Slapping his hands and swaying funky at the Nineteenth Gospel Church Of Mild Indignation. His throat is hoarse from singing and his beard is flecked with deep throat warbled spit and vocal chord blood.

I think his gospel is one of hope. At least if I listen right. There with my ear to my chest with the suppleness I acquired from years of trying to suck my own cock and headbutt midgets.

It goes something like…

“Terrorists…don’t fail me now. I can forgive a lot of things. I could probably even give you a free pass on making flying a hell ride roulette of how inadequate that security guard feels today. Just…
Don’t fail me now.

Do some good.
Stand up for something.
Make your voice heard the only way the world listens – that is – with the voice of a high powered rifle.

Poke your finger into the chest of the six foot six bully that is the cancer of imperialism. With a bullet.”

Besides, I hear him snarl – suicide bombing – that’s for quitters. That’s for terrorists who just don’t have the moxy for the fight. Sure they can say the prayers, sing the real national anthems and recite the lists of dead – but can they stay the course – Can They???

No they fucking can’t.
I’m ashamed to live in a day and age where I both miss the cartoons of my youth and the no nonsense terrorists of yore. The ones with the bile and the strength to carry the fight proper and not lamely blow themselves up in a fruit market to kill a few women and children. Cowards.

“It doesn’t even have to have a deliberate aim.
Don’t have a big meandering speech prepared for when they rush that room.
Don’t kill yourself.”

When they ask you – shrug and numbly say

“’Just ‘cause.”

“Whatever you do, don’t hit the wife. You don’t want to create one of those dead eyed husbands that started out for revenge and now seem to enjoy the suffering. ‘Cause, that’ll show them…

I don’t care if you hit a minor royal – visiting dignitary or celebrity – I don’t even care if you just hit the gas tank. In fact, thinking about it, hit the gas tank.“

I’m not sure I’d even have my eyes open to see the ensuing conflagration take out one of the retinue and those flag waving jingoists. What with the fact I’ll have decked out the front of my TV with a quasi-altar of Diana pictures that will be sitting on a thick layer of ketchup. This I will be stabbing with a switchblade with a dinky toy Mercedes glued to it, screaming in the high pitch voice I imagine sounds like the last minutes of internal bleeding and a fatal brain contusion as I try repeat past glories and get an erection.

I don’t even want it to be one of the regular ones. I sure as fuck don’t want it to be anything to do with Islam. They wrecked terrorism for everyone and really at this stage should be sent home with a note. Thanks for making it boring guys.

I want it to be something or someone completely left field and unexpected. Like a native American or a Welsh woman. You know what would be more amazing? A furry or a really sane student of De Bono acting in a moment of pure sociological lateral thinking.

Ready with thought bayonets and jars of marmite.

It’ll be great though, don’t listen to me.
If we ignore the strange sixty six year karmic echo – and if we ignore the fact his brother likes to put the uniform on at parties – give the salute.
It’ll be great.
The world hasn’t seen a big deal made out of a German state wedding in decades.

Which begs the question – did Kate Middleton have to go through that old ritual where the royal doctor checks if she’s a virgin? Did anyone catch that? Diana had to.

This isn’t anything to do with love.
We just need a little something to kick the jingo back into the British.
As the rest of the world struggles off the juddering delirium tremens of imperialism withdrawal.

How utterly fucking insensitive.

And anyway…

Why in the middle of the Sledgehammer video just when he starts singing “I kicked the habit” is Peter Gabriel dancing between arms gesturing to – six African ladies. What is he trying to tell us? Just what habit has he kicked?