They’ve tried to inject some character into the place by dotting a few trees and benches around the broad plazas in front of the monolithic grey shops, but it’s a token gesture at best. The goal here is to get you into those shops and spending, not hanging about smelling the flowers and having a nice time outside.
I get to Whitehaven at just gone 9 a.m.
By half eleven I’m bored to tears, jazzed on coffee, and my car boot is full of several roll necks from FatFace, a myriad of sleep tops from Next, a particularly fluffy pair of slippers from M&S, and, for some reason, a kitchen utensil pot with a picture of a whale on it. I bought it in that weird Scandinavian shop – the one whose name no one can ever entirely remember once they’ve walked out of the doors. It sells thousands of different products, while at the same time being completely chock-a-block with nothing but memory foam cushions and kitchen utensil pots featuring pictures of aquatic mammals.
This protest had really better get going soon, before I end up spending the rest of my month’s shopping allowance in one morning. There’s only so long I can hold out before I just have to buy that fluffy green onesie in Primark.
Luckily for my bank balance (and sense of self-worth . . . mark my words, the wearing of a onesie puts you on a very slippery slope), at about eleven forty-five I start to see and hear a commotion coming from the main central plaza that sits right in the middle of Whitehaven, where two of the broad pedestrian streets intersect with one another.
Coming out of Primark, I see that a small crowd has started to form in front of about a dozen people. This group is an eclectic bunch. Half hippy, half middle-class ex-prep school – they aesthetically mix about as well as milk and olive oil.
Two of them are currently erecting a large banner, strung across two very heavy-looking metal stands. When the banner is taut enough to read, I can see that it says Warriors For The Planet. The a’s in ‘warrior’ and ‘planet’ are stylised to look like the planet Earth. This means that the banner actually reads Worriors For The Plonet, which is a little unfortunate. Quite why they chose to convert the a’s and not the o’s is beyond me. Sounds like they need a good PR company to handle their branding.
I’m definitely in the right place, though. That much is certain.
The question is, where is Nolan?
I crane my head to look at the crowd that’s fast gathering around the Worriors, but there’s no sign of my new boss as yet. Perhaps he’s only coming once the protest is officially underway.
Never mind, this gives me the chance to ingratiate myself with the protestors a little. That way, when Nolan does arrive, it’ll look like I already know them. This will help cement my climate-friendly credentials.
I sidle my way up to one of the Worriors who is decidedly in the middle-class camp. Nobody else in the world could – or would want to – pull off a chunky-knit blue cardigan and a dark-green blazer. They both go well with the thick spectacles, wavy brown quiff and pinched expression.
‘Morning!’ I say brightly, affecting my most friendly of tones. I really want to get on this chap’s good side.
He looks quite startled. ‘Er . . . hello?’
‘You’re the Warriors For The Planet, then?’
‘Er . . . yes. Why do you want to know?’
He’s gone very cagey.
I’m not all that surprised. I doubt they get many ordinary members of the public chatting to them at these kinds of events. The inclination of the great British public is to stand and watch in curious amusement at protests, not actively engage with the participants.
Either that, or he thinks I’m an undercover police officer about to search him for cannabis.
‘Because I’m very keen on being more environmentally conscious!’ I lie through my teeth. I can hardly say I’m here to save my bloody job, can I?
‘Oh, right. That’s, er . . . that’s super.’
Well, you could be a bit more enthusiastic about it, pal. I thought you’d be delighted that someone was actually taking an interest.
‘What are you protesting about here today?’ I ask him.
In return, he gives me a rather scared and unsure look. This is clearly not what he was expecting.
‘Er . . . um . . . I don’t usually talk to people.’
‘Don’t you?’
‘No. Not after what happened at the petrol station.’
‘What happened at the petrol station?’
‘Um . . . I ended up telling a reporter where our old HQ was.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Bandy was really mad at me.’
‘Bandy?’
The middle-class chap holds out an arm and points at one of the hippy-looking Worriors – a woman in a tie-dye tank top who sports very muscular biceps and a fine head of white dreadlocks.
‘That’s Bandy,’ he tells me. ‘She does the talking.’
‘Ah, right. I should probably go and have a chat with her then, yeah?’
‘Er . . . yeah.’
I think that’s just about all I’m going to get out of him. He looks like he’d rather be doing absolutely anything else than talking to me.
I take my hasty leave, and walk over to where Bandy is finishing off the erection of the banner. Still no sign of Nolan in the crowd, which is probably a good thing. I want it to look like I’m well ensconced with this lot before he arrives.
‘Bandy?’ I say as I approach her.
‘Yeah? Can I help you?’
Well, she seems a little happier to talk – if no less suspicious, from the looks of her narrowed eyes.
‘I hope so! I’m very interested in the protest and just wanted to have a chat.’
She nods her head. ‘Oh right, are you from Padlo’s bunch?’
‘Padlo’s bunch?’
‘Yeah. He said he’d try to get a load of his lot down, to swell the numbers a bit.’
‘Yes! That’s right! I’m with Padlo’s bunch. Most certainly. With Padlo. And his bunch.’
Oh good grief. What on earth am I doing?
‘There any more of you coming?’
‘Er . . .’
‘Only he said he’d try and get at least ten of you down.’
‘Oh . . . well . . . I don’t really know. I’m a bit new to all of this. A bit new to being part of . . . Padlo’s bunch.’
Bandy nods again. ‘Oh well. Let’s just hope more of you do turn up.’ She looks me up and down. I’m not dressed as a hippy or a cast member from Made in Chelsea, so she’s not too sure about me – I can tell. ‘Have you done a die-in before?’
‘A die-in?’
‘Yeah. That’s why we’re here. Didn’t you know that?’
‘Er . . . yes! Of course I did! And of course I’ve done one before! Oh my, yes. I’ve done . . . two. Two die-ins.’
‘Great! Looking forward to making a statement with you!’
‘Absolutely!’
Again, what the bloody hell am I doing?
Seriously . . . anyone have any ideas? Because I’m all out.
I think I must have lost the plot.
Bandy looks around to see a group of about ten or so people making their way with purpose towards us. ‘Ah! There you go! Padlo’s bunch!’ she says with some relief in her voice. ‘Nice to see that some more of you have turned up!’