All good things must come to an end. But all bad things must come to an end too. And so it is, as we approach the thirtieth birthday of one of cyberspace’s most prolific, profligate and profusively-bearded bloggers, that we wave goodbye to Old Rope, and wish him a short, efficient and hygienic death.
Our society is a simple one, built on immutable truths and sturdy logic. Who among us would sincerely suggest that the life of a 30-year old is as productive or as valuable as that of a 21-year old or even a 28-year old? No-one (except for that gentleman there with the seditious moustache. Security: please detain the Hercules Poirot lookalike for re-education). That’s right, no-one. With the commencement of an individual’s fourth decade comes decreptitude, dependency and sensible pullovers. And so it is, that our simple rational society has decreed that there is no place more fitting for those aged 30 and over than the death-pod.
We take no pleasure at all in euthanizing the crow-footed and the bepaunched. Logic, not desire, demands that we do so. Except in the case of Old Rope, who, I think we can all agree, most heartedly asks for it.
But before we deposit his wrinkled, brown, homunculus body into the death-pod like a breached teabag, let us tarry a while and survey the life of this hirsute reprobate.
We first became aware of the existence of Old Rope when we: that is, I, the evergreen and perma-youthful John Le Baptiste, moved to the north-western wilds of Airstrip One. Even amid the unruly, rug-haired roustabouts of that place, Old Rope stood out as an enemy to decency and a nuisance to any high-minded, high-waisted citizen who crossed his path. Delicate and bird-like of limb, he hopped into my consciousness like a tiny punk goldthrush, chirruping his countercultural cantatas and flapping his little wings to a 3-chord backing. At that time there were many popular musical acts preaching their messages of irresponsibility and scruffy sartorial values. Their names have sunk deservedly into oblivion, but a few linger still in the neural spam box: The Dirties, The Naughty Club, Facking Rotters, The Earnests, The Little Lenins, Heil Humbert Humbert, Bad Attitudez. Yet the most pernicious of all of these combos was Fuzz-Wah, of which Old Rope was the frontman or, as he styled himself, the frontbum-man, sporting, as he did, a prosthetic pudendum and inviting, as he did, members of the audience to ‘return to the womb’ via his ersatz birth-canal.
Since those days, Old Rope has spread his seditious seeds to far-flung corners of the globe, partly through his blog, and partly through his own horrifically-ageing person.
And although Old Rope represents, in many ways, the nadir of everything that humanity is or could be, and although he is now 30 years old and suitable only for the death-pod, I would like to wish him a belated happy birthday and, assuming he survives the euthanisation process, invite him to join me for a moderately-priced bowl of nutrient-paste at the soup kitchen of his choosing this Monday evening.