The Enchanted Lands : Tony Price's Dystopia.

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The Enchanted Lands : Tony Price's Dystopia.

There exists, somewhere on an island far far away, known to a select few as Albion, a barony called WStore. Much like the rest of the island, it is inhabited by roaming barbarians (because the primitive people of Europe haven't found out yet roaming charges are just a way for phone companies to double bills), living their apparently simple, yet tediously complicated lives, in accordance with ancient traditions and taboos no-one would dream of challenging.

Our prime team of archeologists, anthropologists, historians, sociologists, psychoanalysts, lawyers, home appliance salesmen, TV anchors and whatever other professions we just can't find a use for back home spent a few years with the natives, learning their daily habits and social rules, eating their food, taking their shit and generally being a part of the daily comings and goings of the grand social body (for those of our readers which are in fact viewers, we have a wonderful collection of illustrations in the appendix of this report).

The strange land they came ashore on they called WStore, which is an attempt at transliterating the natives' own name for it, so probably inaccurate. A remarkable fact our team noticed about the locals, and they assure us, holding true about all the inhabitants of that remote island, is that a strange case of vanity affects them. When shown the modern writing implements of our scientists, they claimed not only they know how to use them, but they also know how to write. Of course, when given a page of the simplest text our brave explorers could find in their least used, most simplistic book, the natives made strange faces and weird, unheard of sounds, which they pretended to be reading. Strangely enough, one scientist said out loud that it certainly isn't English, and ever since (and probably for the entire rest of time) the natives, somehow grasping the word names the language, immediately claimed their babble and stutter is in fact English, and had always been.

The tribe structure is very peculiar. Normally a chief and a group, be them elders, priests, concubines, porcupines, depending on location and sociocultural prerequisites share power, and constantly vie for control. Not so for the WStore tribe, which has but a chief, and nothing more. They call this "corporate governance" (words in quotations are vague phonetic translations of the actual names, provided for your convenience). This limp system of government allows for no ends of fun in the wonderful land of WStore.

The sole chief's name is "Tony Price" and he has graciously allowed us to take his picture. That surprised our photographer team, because in their experience all tribesmen without exception are terrified of being photographed, lest their soul be yanked out. The chieftain, when asked, simply shook his head and said it can't be done (yanking his soul out, that is).

One of the biggest problems Wstore-ians have to face in their daily routines is the dangerous gum monster. This is a parasite, usually found in nature either in a flat, two inches by half inch sheet, in the summer, or in it's hibernation shelled form, which is smaller but thicker and surrounded by a strong outer shell, which remarkably tastes minty. The gum monster is very successful, since it has the very strange property, unseen in any living organisms, of not being harmed by chewing. With any other live beings we have encountered thus far, the animal's defences have to work before it's being chewed by some predator, by which point everything is forfeit. Not so for the gum monster. While it has virtually no defense mechanisms to speak of, other than the winter shell (which, remarkably enough, is attracting most of it's predators rather than repel them) but that proves not to be a problem, because it doesn't matter if it gets chewed. It doesn't hurt it one bit. Some have speculated being chewed on is crucial for the animal's well being, while others going as far as to say that mating would be impossible for it without being chewed. At any rate, it's only defense mechanism relies more on the concept that there's only so much chewing any predator is willing to do before giving up, and so it has beefed it's defenses to withstand inordinate applications of tooth pressure, repeated mindlessly over hours and even days. Eventually the predator gives up and spits out, and the parasite has won.

The gum monster is a very successful organism, there exist described thousands of species and sub species, the more widely spread being the Wrigley parasite (reported on rare occasions even in our homeland, especially infecting young schoolchildren and less affluent citizens.

It is however a very dangerous and potentially lethal threat, since it has a tendency to end up on chairs and under desks, and then adhere firmly to the posterior of trousers, skirts, g-strings and feather outfits alike, doing them a world of damage (especially feathers). Also, it has been known to suddenly transform into the Lizard Menace (picture 2), leveling miles of buildings in it's wake (a legend shared by many of the eastern and far eastern tribes). Finally, it is considered to be a major disease transmitter, from one's person mouth to another's behind, although considering the corporate environment in which the WStore tribe lives, this seems like a veiled metaphor for brown-nosing.

Obviously, the responsibility for dealing with the prevalent gum monster infestation rests solely on the chieftain's shoulders. Seeking only the best for his people, he ordered everybody to be subjected to DNA tests. What, you may ask, DNA tests in a barbarian land ? We have barely just invented those, how are they going to get them ?! Well, thanks to the entrepreneurial nature of our countrymen, even the most advanced in medical research products are widely available in places as remote as the forsaken island of Albion. Actually, it appears we have had trading missions open there for centuries already. Surprisingly, for every researcher studying the odd habits of the foreign islanders, there are at least a thousand tradesmen studying the particular glimmer of their gold. As a matter of fact, most of these traders are much better informed than the entire scientific world as to the why's and how's of the daily life on the island. What are we doing here then ? Well, we have won a grant, might as well spend it.

It appears that the seeds of dissent manifested just as soon as the well intended chieftain ordered the DNA testing. Much unlike the civilised people back home, the barbarian islanders do not have their personal identification number prominently displayed at all times, they don't submit full body shots to their government Homeland Security division at all, let alone yearly like we do back home (or more than yearly if we travel by air), they don't even have a Federal Chiropractic Weekly Inspection (aka IRS), backward savages that they are.

As such, just as soon as the word got out that the chief is going to demand DNA sampling, most of the tribesmen ran over to the neighbouring tribe of Press and offered them a deal, Tony Price's head in exchange for public scrutiny. The Press people eagerly agreed.

This neighbouring tribe of the Press is a vicious, cannibalistic, horrible lot. They customarily eat their own when too weak to go out hunting stories (their primary food source). The actual name "Press" comes from an ancient torture device, consisting of a wooden mount for two solid cylinders, through which any unfortunate victim was forced, breaking their bones and turning them into a paste, easily digestible by their young (called the readers) but not at all resembling the original subject matter. Countless great men succumbed to this horrible torture, and became unrecognizable by their friend or foe alike.

When he heard of the treachery, and of the impending threat of the Press hordes, Tony the chieftain immediately backed down. It is, after all, no fun to be turned into pancakes. After mature meditation, he decided the threat of the gum monster to his people pales in comparison with the threat of the evil Press neighbours to his own person, and so decided to move from requiring DNA testing to trying to find the treacherous tribesmen that nearly cost him his breadth and width.

And so, the brave Tony ordered all the natives to take polygraph tests, to weed out the heathen unbelievers, the swingers, those who make the circle with two fingers (the circle is a gesture of religious import, and it is always done using three fingers, one for the daughter, one for the hard boiled egg, and one for the holy fart), the Abstinents (abstinence is a horrible crime in Britain), the Malevolents as well as any devil weeds disguised within the populace.

Another neighbouring tribe, called Liberty, decided to send emissaries telling the chieftain his move is ridiculous, and violates the populace, as well as it's rights to family and private fornication, but Chief Tony was adamant. "The more violation, the better population", he chanted.

We look forward to spending the rest of our year here, finding out first hand if this doctrine works.

Signed, the membership of the research team,
Virginia Woolfed, Judith Butler's, Margaret ChowDong, Miss Luce Irigaray, Psyque Eagerpants, Marylin FrenchKiss, Sandra Hardon, Nellie McHung, Clitiris Murdoch, Emmeline Spankhurst, Margaret Banger, Token Male, Fartha Stewart, Iris Married Young.

Photographic Appenix :