Tea Time: Confessions of a reluctant revolutionary.
Hi Laurie,
Is hand making pottery an act of radical anti-capitalist rebellion, or is it just another luxury hobby for rich people who can’t do yoga?
Tina
Namaste Tina,
This is a dangerous conversation, but yes, we potters meet in secret and plot to overthrow the establishment in smoky basements all over the country. We assemble in the evenings immediately following the latest episode of The Great British Throwdown and, after we’ve sharpened our potters knives and washed our garrotes, we bitch about the contestants and argue about whether Keith Brymer Jones is the most emotionally intelligent man on the planet or just a massive pussy.
We each have a special secret code name. I’m known as ‘Tea Time’ because instead of throwing molotov cocktails I throw hot cups of tea on the groins of my enemies. It really hurts, and I’d know. The dog jumped up on the couch the other day and I spilled my cuppa right on the old truncheon. Friendly fire my bollocks!
Speaking of injuries, you’ve got to expect some pain if you want to ride the fiery chariot of revolution. I’ve recently transitioned away from accepting digital currency. If you want to buy my pots these days I only accept coins, which I eat. Anything I can pass without crying I can keep. It’s a way of purifying the transactional process. I learnt it from Keith Brymer Jones who sells tons of pots but doesn't have a penny to his name.
We must all do our bit for the radical anti-capitalist rebellion. I am currently working on a suffocation pot. This pot, which looks a bit like an enclosed motorcycle helmet will be used to smother the leader of the global capitalist illuminati by filling it with porridge and dumping the whole thing on their head. A tight fit should ensure that they choke to death, thus liberating millions trapped in bondage. Unless they are Scottish, or hungry, in which case I’m fooked.
I’ve never admitted this before Tina but I’m actually the leader of the movement. We call ourselves POP or Potter’s Against Pennies because we all hate money so much. I probably hate money the most out of all of us because I’m so embarrassingly successful at accumulating it. It’s everywhere. My deep freeze is a foodless cash morgue and my mattress is 5cm from the ceiling. It’s impossible to sleep. The sooner I can trade my masterfully crafted, original pots for a handful of broken shells or a homemade candle that smells like Rudolf Steiner's dick, the better.
This rebellion is no holiday Tina. Nobody is luxuriating except Keith Brymer Jones in his giant baby play overalls. It’s hard graft and it's true that there's been no time for yoga even though we could all use a good stretch. I tried it once and almost choked myself unconscious just bending forward. Like a sentient whoopie cushion I spent most of the class apologizing, silently with my eyes, for farting. In the end I fell asleep on my sodden mat and snored. The instructor, in an act of mercy, placed a heavy blanket on me and lit an incense to smudge the room and neutralize my rebel miasma. She was lovely, and kind and had only charged me $15 for the hour, but I could smell the capitalism on her breath.
At our last POP meeting we decided to postpone the radical anti-capitalist rebellion for a couple of weeks while Karen (Code Name: Cookie) was away on a seniors yoga retreat in Bali. Karen brings the milk and biscuits and because the rest of us have sworn off money it makes it a bugger to acquire the necessary supplies without owning a cow. As most of us like a plop of milk in our tea we’ve decided it’s better to wait for her to return. But before we adjourned I had some radical news to share with the group.
Last week I received a message from Keith Brymer Jones insisting that I appear as a guest judge on season 10 of The Great British Throwdown. I responded with a tentative ‘yes’ which I tied to a pigeon and released. It’s going to take a while to swim from New Zealand to Stoke on Trent so I’ll leave it here for now. Needless to say that when I told my comrades at POP, there wasn't a dry eye in the room.
XL