A leading TV astrologer has called for “Psychedelic Revolution Now!” during an interview on Newsnight.
The jovial entertainer shocked presenter Jeremy Paxman when he admitted he had injected several “reefers” of LSD in the green room. Grant had been invited to the studio to discuss his stint as guest editor of Cheshire Life.
When asked why he chose to edit a lifestyle magazine for very rich people and aspirational tossers, Grant replied:
” I want them to wake up, to experience the here and now, we are all one with the universe and if I can just get through to these people, and explain that their wealth, their houses, their cars, their horses, all of that shit, that none of it matters, and that the hard eye of the universe is the ever flowering source radiating timeless nowness through every vibrating particle, even in their own dead hearts, then, if they can just see that, they can change, they can evolve their consciousness, it’s a revolution, and it’s now, always now”
“but it just looks like an old edition of Oz!” Paxman claimed witheringly.
“come on Jeremy, grow your beard man, I am a fucking wizard you know, I can make rainbows, I’m a starman, and I’m sick of the way the world is run by an elite of lizards who are disenfranchising the youth of today and turning them all into clones, it’s just emotionally destitute corporate wonga lords manufacturing analogs of ur-turd sold as aspartamane Mileys for a generation of feckless addicts, and I want to wake them all up, them at the top and them at the bottom ”
Paxman glowered at the fluffy pantomime dame for several seconds then asked:
“I’m sorry, were you talking to me?”
Grant suggests putting LSD in the reservoirs, but the chlorine would kill it, how about chem-trailing it?
It was a dismal night, towards a blurred ending, like nothing ever changed but the style of grey, a tone and weave apart from the next, so slim but that was all, our mecca bingo like a wall, only the dead pass, and through that particular shade and twill, orange smiling warm stains splash across the imaginary starlines where we wished the viaduct was translucent, instead of a dictator, and the hordes gathered uncertainly, expecting the divine, but the buses were running late and nobody expected an airship, a dirigible cloud like a fat bouncer on the door to the vista in a pact with the viaduct to block the angles, but then the body swayed and the insignia revealed, the western ocean reflecting through the transmatter panels; the Mung Function, and toys parachuted down onto the crowds, eighths of an ounce of Lebanese hashish and spangles.
Next up was the Sex Pistols, but most of the crowd had gone home by then…