George Monbiot’s Bloodlust Veganism
Meat is Murder — Unless an S Reg Volvo 950 Estate Did the Killing
Get up! Move, damn it! Don’t you know you’re fair game, lying there listless like that with George around? Sleep too long and he’ll be tempted to take a bite out of you!
Doyen of Britain’s anaemic liberal left, George Monbiot has announced he’s gone vegan. Like many of his fellow self-declared herbivores, George’s veganism turns out to be rather flexible. According to his article, when round a friends’ house he’ll ‘revert to vegetarianism’. One can picture the veteran environmentalist hiding behind the fridge door, surreptitiously gobbling down hard-boiled eggs in the fluorescent glow. The reversion to vegetarianism doesn’t stop at ‘a drop of milk’ in his tea ‘when away from home’, no. Vegan George will quaff on fish ‘once a month’, but it doesn’t count really, because the fish he eats are species at the bottom of the food chain. Or something.
The occasional fish and dairy can’t hurt, can it? It’s animal meat which is the real environmental killer, particularly that which is intensively farmed.
That’s why now he’s gone vegan enough to ‘come out’ to an uninterested public in a national newspaper column, George won’t eat farmed meat. That is, apart from on ‘special occasions’. He admits this is partly down to greed, but also, ever the polite dinner guest, to avoid being ‘more of a spectre’ than he already is at such occasions.
A spectre of bourgeois moralising is haunting the dinner parties of Britain…
George eschews the conventional image of masculinity associated with meat eating. Vegans are no less ‘manly’ than their meat eating brothers and sisters. Well, apart from George, who is literally less man than he was prior to taking up his faux vegan diet, having dropped a stone in weight.
As many vegans will claim to anyone unlucky enough to be in earshot, George feels better than he has in years. He’s dropping weight at an alarming rate and enjoys the deathly pallor of an 18th century consumption victim, but he’s feeling great! Seriously! No, no, believe him, he really is!
Even George’s asthma has miraculously cleared up. As a man of science with regard to the climate change debate, it’s perplexing George would put the improvement of his hitherto slipshod lungs down to the fact he’s quit milk (apart from those emergency cups of tea out of the house).
Following recent medical tests, I was given a clean bill of health. Perhaps I should put this down to my daily habit of guzzling down enough bovine mammary juice to capsize a small dinghy?
None of this is particularly shocking to those of us used to being morally brow-beaten by shape-shifting vegans who enjoy boring the rest of the world with the most intimate details of what they regard as an exceedingly fascinating dietary life. One wonders how agreeable said life is, considering how much time vegans spend trying to convince themselves of the fact through their constant attempts to convince those around them.
Like most vegans who chomp on burgers after a heavy session, or on ‘special occasions’ (bleeding -quite literally- into bank holidays and Christmas), or when the need for heme iron found only in animal meat can no longer be ignored, George cannot break free from the biological cage in which he is imprisoned. The primordial drive to hunt and kill, epitomised by the dopamine rush experienced when tearing juicy sinew between his incisors, can only mean one thing;
George is a natural born killer.
Farmed meat is a no no, considering the very real environmental impact of intensive agriculture. As George rightly points out in his article, the planet could easily sustain the current population and possibly more if everyone switched to a vegan diet. Yet, what of the moral implications of eating meat full stop?
George couldn’t give a flying fuck. George relishes feasting on any roadside carcass he is able to source,
“I still eat roadkill when I can find it, and animals killed as agricultural pests whose bodies might otherwise be dumped. At the moment, while pigeons, deer, rabbits and squirrels are so abundant in this country and are being killed for purposes other than meat production, eating the carcasses seems to be without ecological consequence. Perhaps you could call me a pestitarian.”
George seeks warm flesh at night.
At 2am he drives through the Oxford countryside, rain lashing down against his windscreen. The sublimated hope during these eco-friendly hunts is that in these conditions, drivers can’t help but mow down a smorgasbord of furry critters.
If George accidentally crushes a slow to react wood pigeon under the front wheel of the Prius, what of it? Better to take it home with him to eat than good meat going to waste.
The hunt over and dawn drawing near, George heads home. Physically drained by the hours of driving, yet strangely elated, he dumps the assorted cadavers amassed into the bathtub, much to his long suffering wife’s chagrin. Drops of blood slide their way down the white enamel and pool around the sinkhole, which for reasons known to him alone, George keeps plugged throughout the process.
Before placing the meat in deep freeze, his trusty axe reappears to lop the heads off half crushed rabbits, foxes and pigeons. So engrossed in skinning the animals, wrist deep in innards, George hums a jaunty ditty as his wife listens anxiously from the next room, unable to sleep…
When not spreading lactose inspired pseudo science and hacking countryside pests to pieces, George is putting the fear of god into even the most sanguine of late night television hosts.
The evening after the hunt, George appears on Newsnight to extol the virtues of a roadkill diet. Here he unleashes his blood-lust on perma-clammy, James O’Brien, a man with the arrogant swagger of a bent used car salesman and none of the charm. Unbeknown to the Newsnight producers, television history is about to be made.
A segment which opens with O’Brien jokingly warning the audience at home to look away if at all squeamish, quickly descends into something more sinister. Whether it’s the mad look in Monbiot’s eyes, the way he relishes taking his axe to the meat before skinning the poor squirrel, or simply the stench of the under-cooked meat, O’Brien begins to panic. Holding his ear-piece, he appears to address someone off camera. He pleads for permission to end the segment prematurely and roll the credits.
He receives no response.
Monbiot is having none of it. He assures O’Brien the presenter is overreacting and he’ll enjoy the flattened squirrel. As Monbiot rips the skin from the rodent with a cackle, O’Brien turns sheet white, forced to grip the table for balance.
Under Monbiot’s watchful eye, the usually cocksure O’Brien tearfully chews into the charred remains of a squirrel George was sniffing for ‘the rot’ on a curbside just off the A40 mere hours prior. In the build up to O’Brien’s initiation to bloodlust veganism, Monbiot describes with incredulity how roadside carcasses normally end up in landfill. Imagine!
Sweating profusely with Monbiot stood over him clutching his axe, O’Brien thinks of his wife and children, ‘just leave them out of this, yeah George?’
‘Ooh, do eat up, James!’ Monbiot replies, his measured, received pronunciation accent worthy of the finest Hollywood anti-heroes, before raising a nice glass of Chianti.
The show ends backed by the disquieting sound of Monbiot’s maniacal laughter, faded out by a quick-witted producer scrambling to raise the volume of the closing theme music. Eagle eyed viewers spot the shadowy outline of O’Brien slumping back into his seat, a broken man, head in hands and sobbing.
‘What have I become?’ O’Brien can be heard muttering to himself over and over.
Monbiot raises his glass once more, before ripping a hunk from the squirrel remains O’Brien dropped onto the floor. He closes his eyes and draws in a deep breath. An orgasmic sensation long missing from his sex life floods every fibre of his being. Eyes closed and blood collecting around the corners of his mouth, Monbiot lets out an ungodly moan, sending a shiver down the spin of the nearby floor manager.
Arriving home late that night, George made a great effort to enter the house as quietly as possible. He managed to traverse the creaky staircase of his grand Oxford eco-home, almost silently. Opening the bedroom door, he was surprised to see his wife completely still. She was such a light sleeper, she normally never bothered even attempting to go to bed until George returned home. It was unusual to say the least.
As he mulled this over, George accidentally stepped on the squeaky third floorboard. To his amazement, his wife didn’t stir.
Axe in hand, the Prius driving corpse sniffer hovered over the woman’s pale frame, blocking light flooding into the room from the hallway. She appeared completely lifeless.
The wooden axe handle almost slipped from his sweat covered hand. He gulped.