As I sat in Mr. Blobby’s marble-tiled conservatory, I was struck by two of my favourite words: simplicity and style. After several decades in the industry, Blobby had clearly seen it all. The bookcases on the wall elegantly guarded a selection of classical works, and on the coffee table next to me, I noticed a copy of the 2020 Booker prize winner: Shuggie Bain.
“You’re clearly a man of culture.” I caught myself saying, almost to nobody at all. Blobby sat as unphased as ever, his pearlescent eyes staring almost right through me. Legs folded, and arms resting comfortably at his side, he looked at me with an almost coquettish smile.
“Blowowowowowowowowowowowowowowowowowowowowow.” He said plainly.
At this moment, it became clear to me that Blobby’s approach to wit was akin to that of a fencer. Rapid, precise, and leaving you aware that you had been stung only well after he had landed his blow. Luckily for me, Blobby’s reputation precedes him, and I had come prepared.
“Blowowowowowowowowowowowowowowowowowowowowow.” – Mr. Blobby
“Let’s get straight down to business,” I announced, as firmly as my nerves could muster. “As a British national treasure, are you worried about the UK’s post-Brexit approaches to climate policy?”
I had played my strongest card first, and behind Blobby’s topaz polka-dots, I detected a flush of respect.
“Beeeeeeoooouuuuiiiiiiiwowowowowowowowowoiiiiiuuuuu…” he immediately retorted. Clearly this wasn’t the first time a young, handsome, climate-sensitive journalist had fired him a tricky question.
“Oh of course” I said, frustrated that I hadn’t anticipated such an eloquent response. “Based on your lobbying against neonicotinoid pesticides, I should have guessed as much.”
In an attempt to distract myself from the obvious blush slowly spreading across my cheeks, I took a sip of water from a crystal-cut tumbler sat on the table next to me. The table was varnished ash. The water was sparkling, with a hint of lemon. Blobby really was a class act for all the senses.
“Well let me pose this question to you…” I said, lingering on the final word to give me time to compose myself. “Do you feel that we are on track to cut global greenhouse emissions by 40% by 2030, in line with Climate Action’s 2030 climate and energy framework? And if not, where are we falling behind?”
A wave of relief spread over me. My grip on the crystal-cut tumbler relaxed. I had managed to get the question out without stumbling over my words. No mean feat when in the presence of entertainment royalty.
“Blobawoba, blobawoba, woooooob.” Blobby returned, thoughtfully, whilst miming a car veering down a long country lane.
I nodded in agreement, before Blobby continued to expand on his point.
He sprang to life in a series of imaginative and thought-provoking pantomimes. He aped the intricate machinery used to facilitate high-pressure fracking, displaying his lament for the process in the emptiness of his eyes.
“He was illustrating how there is energy in all of us. Power in all of us. The power to create change.”
Next, with ingenious use of his body, he became a map of the British Isles (including all overseas territories), and dextrously illustrated all possible locations where Britain may invest in hydroelectric alternatives to meet energy demands.
Finally, Blobby peacefully moved his chair to the side of the room and re-emerged at the centre. Stepping his left leg back, and bending his right, blobby sprang up into a bout of pirouettes which lasted for minutes.
“… A generator…” I said to myself. “He’s showing me a generator. He’s illustrating how there is energy in all of us. Power in all of us. The power to create change. The power to support ourselves and our planet also.”
Power. Might. Climate revolution.
“Blooooooooooooooooooowwwwwweeeeeeiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiooooooooooooooobloooo.” Blobby sang, as he continued to accelerate faster and faster on demi-point.
He stopped as quickly as he had started. In silence, Blobby stood motionless. A member of staff picked up his chair, and gently placed it behind him. As Blobby sat, I simply took him in. His eyes like glass. His face the colour of coral. And wet. I noticed there were tears on his cheek. It must be so difficult for someone who loves the world as much as Mr. Blobby to discuss such issues. And I will tell you, reader, Blobby debates these issues with passion.
The silence of the room pressed on me, how a blanket presses on the body of a child. I felt small; I felt tired; I felt comfort and homeliness in Blobby’s company. I felt now was the time to raise a topic which scared me. A topic which, up until this point, I had considered déclassé. One of those subjects people in the industry tell you never, ever to broach, lest you wish to end your career.
But we had shared so much together. So much hurt. So much truth. So much love. I had to ask.
“Mr. Blobby, if I may…” I began to second guess myself, but the truth had to come out.
“You have previously been criticised for your work on the infamous BBC show The Generation Game. Several writers have previously criticised you for acting as a driver of consumer culture in the UK, and as such, consider that your work in sustainability is fringing on hypocrisy. How do you respond to these claims?”
“Danger was a thing with custard spots.”
Blobby stared straight forwards. He said nothing.
The air, which previously swaddled me like a warm blanket, had become a tight noose around my neck. My pounding heartbeat was becoming all the more visible.
Blobby could sense my fear.
“WooooOoooop.”
“I’m sorry” I stammered. “I don’t understand. Mr. Blobby, sir, I never meant to offend. Merely to give you an opportunity to – ”
“BLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOBBBBYYYYYY!”
Before I could finish Blobby was on his feet, the rate at which he jumped sending his chair flying across the room. He began raking his right foot against the ground, like a bull about to charge.
At this, reader, I dismissed myself as fast as my legs would carry me. All journalists know that at times, danger demands that we must pull back; we must retreat so that we may work on uncovering the truth for another day. And on this day, danger was a thing with custard spots.
My final remarks on this short conversation with television’s Mr. Blobby can be surmised in one line: Mr. Blobby is a man who cares. I hold no grudge against Blobby for the way I was forcibly ejected from his 4-story mansion. When discussing matters of the heart, it is only natural that, at times, we become overwhelmed with emotion. I feel both humbled and inspired by the exchange I was fortunate enough to have with Blobby. And I hope that, if he is reading this, he will stop throwing whipped cream pies at my front door.
Elliot is a PhD Student studying the cognition and evolution of wild primates. As such, he has spent multiple evenings in the rainforest, laying under the stars wondering “why, dear god, did I decide to do this?”. Elliot doesn’t have many formal accolades under his belt; he is, therefore, a comedian of the people. A clown for the every-person. He belongs at The Dump because he is, indisputably, trash.