So, the previous chapter has hopefully taught us something; namely that although any publicity is considered good publicity, that which happens after you’re dead is as much use as celluloid cat in hell.
Times moved on, huts were the new caves, mud was the new rock, language was the new grunt and a sheep still looked inviting when it quivered its tail and you weren't hungry; some things were, after all, universal, as was the need to eat, certainly once a day but in honesty as often and as excessively as was possible. In a time before circumcision probably the secondmost biggest drawback for any leader, who wanted to keep his bird, his meat and his life for longer than a week that is, was having to be involved in the bi-daily hunting activity of the tribe. I mean, here was an occupation that was fraught with danger, of the dying kind. What our semi-consolidated-in-his-position-leader needed was a strategy to allow him to stay out of the death scrum that was his equivalent of our trip to Tesco's until the hunt was brought to a satisfactory conclusion by others, regardless of casualties, but this reticence must still allow our leader a large share of the kill; not easy given the appetites, tempers and table manners of the usual killing-crew.
You didn’t need to be a genius (a phenomenon impossible to latch onto in these days of single-syllable education and diplodocus-to-squeeze-a-grape diplomacy anyhow) to work out this was where the fault lay in an otherwise pretty safe job. I mean, there was no money so no need for a chancellor to muddy the waters of authority; there was no health service so no worries about waiting lists and crabby customers moaning that, because the surgeon had removed the wrong leg and you’d have to go back in to have the correct one off, it wasn’t sufficient recompense for you to be told the patient in the next bed wanted to buy your slippers; no railways so no disgruntled passengers bitching about.........well, well everything really, no trains, dirty stations, not enough carriages, too costly, take your pick. No, the early, pre-Stone Age leader had it pretty cushy all-in-all. The only dickey moments in an otherwise trouble-free existence were these interminable, bloody, hunting forays.
Most of the youngsters enjoyed them, of course, even looked forward to them, daft buggers so there was always a core group of willing sacrifices, but the hunt needed all hands on deck to become succesful, and some of those hands had to be skillful, knowledgeable and not just used for masturbation techniques. To these older members of the tribe, and the life-of-pig-sty-luxury that was our leader in particular, the hunt was nothing more than a daily throw of Lucifer’s dice.
Today of course, being a leader means being surrounded by plush carpetry and warmth, enough ‘canapés and champers’ to sink then refloat the QE2, a willing bevy of large-breasted maidens on permananet call-out and the certainty of large wedges of cash landing in your lap at the end of an evening spent dressed in a D.J. All the preceding helps soften the blow of any enterprise built on luck and the all pervading stench of livestock. However, at this point in history, and apart from the willing bevy of large-breasted maidens and the all pervading stench of livestock that had nothing to do with bluffing your way through life, the ambience of the surroundings left a lot to be desired in these far off days when D.J. stood for Dingo-skin Jerkin and a large wedge stood………? No trays of delicately prepared nibbles in this particular casino of life; no sir. This whole precarious existence was held together by a diet that had to be wrestled to the ground immediately after grace, so a large chunk of the available “fun-factor” was removed from a pastime that already had an enjoyment factor of zero; add all this to the fact that the odds of you returning home to enjoy the spoils of the chase were well stacked against you and you have the perfect recipe for a miserable day out. If the flailing feet, slashing claws, gnashing teeth or scything horns housed in and on the fight-you-to-the-death victim didn’t get you, then the anticipation-edged, dribble-fuelled, sheer bad aim of your hunting companions probably would; it’s not hard to see why so much thought was given over to how to avoid this pre-historic, daily scratch-card by those new to power.
It was whilst out walking one day (not too far from the village in case a Plain’s Lion was about and peckish, you understand) and deep in thought (or as deep in thought as a life which revolved around the space between lower rib-cage and knees would allow) that our new leader saw a way forward on this issue; there, before him was a tree. Not that he hadn’t seen a tree before, I mean, he sctarched his arse up against one every day, just before defacating at its base and then peeing up it, but this one intrigued him, or at least in these days of limited descriptive vocabulary, made him look at it harder. As he stared, a large cloud passed over the face of the sun causing the tree’s leaves to curl slightly as the bright glare dimmed somewhat. For over half-an-hour he stood watching, which is a very long time in days when the average life expectancy was 30 years and bloody. Then the clouds cleared momentarily and the leaves stretched again, folding out gently, facing the brilliant orb once more. A further larger and darker cloud passed over the sun and once again our leader was rooted to the spot as the leaves once more folded into a shy curtsey in deference to the sun’s disappearance............and the awareness hit him like a bolt of lightening! In fact it was a bolt of lightening. So absorbed had this idiot been in this metrologoical occurrence that he’d failed to see it was a thunder cloud full of electronic malice that cast the second shadow. Luckily our gallant leader's teeth stopped the massive charge from earthing so he was able to carry this knowledge, and his molars, back with him to camp.
Once he’d scampered home and had time to sort through his emotions and damaged canines, he began to piece things together and the revelations came slowly and with difficulty, like a Virgin Express into Bristol Parkway. Those leaves had been like the tribe.......his tribe...... locked on to the shining beacon of......of strength and certainty of the sun which in his tribe's case shone on them in the shape of him...............their leader. But, when that warm glow of strength and health threatened to leave them they curled..........withered in their inadequacy of his strength and purpose. These leaves, like the men in the tribe, were the life-blood of the tree.........which represented the group. They helped make it grow..........kept it strong..........gave it purpose, but all of this ability was instinctively recognised by the tree.........by the tribe...... and its leaves to be dependant on the sun.......on him.......and the sun convinced the tree of this every time it was covered by cloud......and the tribe needed to know this was the way it worked without him..........! ‘Course, our illustrious leader didn’t think quite like this. I mean, how could a man with a brow that was reminiscent of a 1984, formula one Maclaren rear-spoiler work out such complex ideologies? No, he’d just watched the leaves curl, figured they looked like a hand gripping onto a cock and worked out that he needed to convince the tribe that, without him, they’d be nothing but a bunch of wankers. But the question remained the same; how to feed and fornicate well but get off jankers when the hunt was next called and not lose face and position.
The second flash of lightening and accompanying crack of thunder cowed him in the corner of his urine-soaked abode as he was reminded of the elemental payback of forgetfulness, but it also cleared the way for his second flash of insight namely, in order to avoid any further field dentistry, send someone else out to look at the bloody tree, or, in the case at hand, send someone else out on the hunt in his place!......... But who……and by what excuse? A valuable lesson in timing was forthcoming here as our leader realised he could do with another artist of flint and stick like at the lsat hunt. Should’ve saved him, but then, his demise had had an element of timing in it; surely there was another lesson in timing to be gleaned here?
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