Political animal

I’m a political animal. At least, I am after 10am and my fourteenth cup of coffee. Before then, I’m just an animal.

The first question I ask someone I’ve only just met is: “If aliens invaded planet Earth, would they come in peace?”

If they answer “Yes,” I scoff in a patronising manner and make a note not to add them to my Christmas card list.

If they answer “No” or “Give me a break!” … Well, I do the same, actually. But that’s not the point.

The point is that, like any open-minded individual, I make a concerted effort to categorise people within three minutes of introduction.

Here are my categories:

1. Drippy, wishful-thinker.

2. Honest realist.

3. Mug who’ll pick up the bill.

I know what you are thinking. You’re thinking: “How does this guy have such a well-tuned innate humanitarianism. What makes him so darn insightful?”

Let me explain. I was brought up feral. At least, that’s how my family explained it. I learnt to bark before I learnt to speak. Occasionally, my civilised façade slips and a bit of the wolf just comes out in me. Those of you who’ve ever seen me dance will testify to this.

But it has its advantages. While some political Darwinists think they believe in the law of the jungle. I am the only serious thinker who actually lives the law of the jungle. I’m never more lucid than when gnawing on some raw flesh. Some of my best speeches have been made on all fours.

And I’m happy this way – a modern-day Mowgli, though with a cuter smile. Why? Because once we cut the crap, there’s a bottom line, humanoids, and this is it: Aliens, if the bastards ever do invade, will not come in peace. In the history of the world (which happens to be my area of expertise) there has NEVER been an instance when anyone came in peace. Explorers invade. Armies conquer. My relatives always empty my liquor cabinet.

The truth is, before 10am, we’re all animals. How else do you explain the dawn raid? You can’t. Who ever rapes and pillages at teatime? Not me, that’s for sure.

Some say I have a profoundly pessimistic – nay, cynical! – view of human nature. I usually tell them to shove it and get out of my face before I make their miserable lives nasty, brutish and short.

OK, so I’m not the world’s biggest do-gooder. But is it my fault it’s rough in the jungle? Of course not. Laws are laws. Who am I not to obey them? And the law categorically states that it’s the survival of the fittest, baby. Lucky me.

As a cub, I’d get into a lot of scraps with all manner of beasts. No doubt, some of you will question the need for such violent confrontation on a daily basis. But I ask you: have you ever tried to reason with a snake? Or promised not to claw a psychotic tiger until you’d secured UN approval? It just doesn’t work that way. It’s kill or be killed, not pass a Security Council resolution or be killed. In the animal kingdom, there is no Security Council. We tried to create one but the cheetahs wouldn’t play fair.

So here’s the lesson: there is such a thing as too much civilisation. There comes a point when you need to ask yourself: do I really care which fork I use for the terrine de canard? Sometimes, people, you just gotta shove your face into your dinner-plate and go wild. Believe me, it’s quite liberating – though you tend to get fewer handmade calligraphic invitations dropped through your letterbox. People just don’t bother when you’re more attracted by the scent of blood.

What’s my point? I’m glad you asked. My point is that I know better than you. I’ve been to more middle-class liberal dinner-parties than you’ve had cold breakfasts. I know how these things work. You sit around like the writers you all are, bemoan the government, talk about the theatre, pass the Chateauneuf, then adopt a child from some country you blame each other’s grandparents for wrecking through their evil imperial colonial ambition (whose money is nevertheless paying for the elaborate spread). Then you crack open another bottle of Chateauneuf and stagger into a taxi, making too much effort to strike up conversation with the non-English-speaking driver so as to flaunt your liberal goodness before you throw up at the moment you are set to declare your undying solidarity to all humanity, be them cabbies, lost tribes, Inuits or anyone who doesn’t look like yourself and your dinner-guests.

The advantage I have over you is that, being raised to fight like a dog for my survival, I have learnt to see the world as it is. I have insight, foresight, and I have a birthmark on my hip that for some reason looks like a map of Bahrain (the significance of which I am still trying to fathom and write about for money).

In the big scheme of things, I am more enlightened than you, more in touch with nature, more attuned to life. If I had to, I could hunt for my dinner. (As it happens, my local deli marinates an irresistible seafood salad and there’s no need). My nose picks up every scent. I can smell fear, death and breakfast – and not necessarily in that order.

I mean, think about it: how come I’m the one writing this column and you’re the one reading it? Is it because you are disadvantaged? I doubt it. Talentless? Probably. Too busy caring for the world to dare insult people with sweeping generalisations? Definitely.

Face it: you need me. I make you feel better about yourself. Tonight, at dinner, you can talk about how “dreadful” I am, and how “shocked” you are by my total disregard for the plight of my fellow man. But you’ll be back next time. You can’t get enough.

Though tough shit, you’ll have to. I’ve run out of things to say.