SEBASTIAN SINCLAIR - Press Conference

SEBASTIAN SINCLAIR

Breathe. In and out. Deep breaths. 

All around me, light. Light burning hotter than a nuclear star, energy emanating from each bulb in a furious atomic buzz that pervades the senses, fraternizes with the inner lobes and chastises the neurons into a state of permanent semi-agitation. Their heat burns my skin like the harsh desert sun, unforgiving, relentless, omnipresent. I can feel the stiffness of my hair gel begin to weaken as a single strand of hair shifts out of position. It is swiftly rectified. My neck is drenched in sweat, I feel the salty, sweet musk soak through my starched collar. Paul Smith, Winter 2009. My cuff links glisten in the light, casting a golden, more forgiving glow onto the whitewashed walls. Twenty four carat, diamond encrusted Diamante. I straighten my tie, tightening the knot to ensure I keep my focus. Selfridges Men’s, 2007, Spring. Eternal seconds go by as I wait. There are times when a man must wait patiently for an opportunity. He makes himself amenable to others, cultivates friendships, becomes the ‘good guy’. He accumulates social worth, he climbs. And he waits, patiently, enduring the whims of the fates until they grant him that fabled lucky break. Then there are times when a man must pounce, storm down the fortress, hold the oracles hostage until they grant him the opportunity to which he has no divine right. He must take ownership of his fate and bend it to his will. He must thrust himself into the light. I am such a man. This is my time.

Breathe.

‘Today at 16.52, Paul the much loved Psychic Octopus, left this mortal earth for more ethereal, oceanic planes. Although he had officially retired from the oracular sporting sphere, who can forget his amazing legacy which has touched the hearts and minds of so many football fans around the globe. Indeed, who could have predicted that a common octopus could rise to such dizzying heights of fame and influence, and be gifted with such astounding abilities. We assume that animals are endowed with a lower level of consciousness. Paul has proved this is not so. He has transcended all expectations and become an icon in his own right. He is a symbol of presence of divinity within natural world. He is hope. He is a beacon of light for those who feel lost in a world consumed by materialism and an obsession with rationality. We demand rationality and logic from our daily lives, we spurn the unexplainable, the irrational, we spurn the very belief which constitutes our humanity. Is love logical? Does it conform to rationality? Yet we would never think to debate its existence or importance within our society.

I beg you, to consider yourself. Consider your life, your hopes, your fears, the minutia which make up your hourly existence. What does it amount to? Do the seconds of tedium drag you through each day to its welcome, inevitable conclusion with a weary gladness that a slumberous oblivion awaits?

Consider the existence of the divinity within nature. Consider Paul. This is all I ask of you. I will now take questions.’

A scrabble of hands all vie for the same patch of heavy, contorted air. A show of digital flashes erupt around the room, an electrical light fantastic which robs the eyes momentarily, lightening thieves of a mundane vision. The room itself is utterly without charm, a neglected conference room in a three star hotel in the germanised twin of Middlesbrough. Their carpet is a sea of red and blue threads intertwined in a moronic pattern of decay and cheerless corporate institutionalisation. Dry white flakes peel off the walls like dead porcelain skin. Generic landscapes of quaint fields adorn the walls as if to hint at the quasi-divine perfection of the gentrified, agrarian ideal after the forty-year struggle to become a competent entity in a faceless, corporate world. I wonder how many other conference room floors are graced by the presence of such wretched, pedestrian tapestry. I can see a dark stain beside a chair leg, vestige of a long forgotten sojourn into the bounds of hell, discussing quarterly figures, new sales incentives and targeted promotional activities whilst politely sipping from the poisoned chalice of boredom. Following up from caffeinated discolouration, I spot a paragon of human intelligence, virtue and wit to focus my attentions on. He slouches on his cheap plastic seat, crumbs scattered across his creased dark suit, an unidentifiable beverage splattered daintily over the off white cotton shirt, dancing a merry waltz with a plethora of cotton bobbles and lint. He will suit.

<<Clive Jones, Sealife News. What sort of relationship did you have with the er....octopus?’ Sniggers rebound around the crowd.

‘Paul and I had an excellent professional working relationship. He was a very intelligent and shrewd mollusc, I feel I learnt a great deal from him. It is my firm belief that through a mutual respect we developed a strong business partnership which lasted right until the end’

 <<Right. Shrewd mollusc. And how are Paul’s nearest and dearest taking the news?>>

‘Obviously, we are all greatly saddened by Paul’s untimely demise. I have pushed for an autopsy so that we may understand what happened during those final hours. However the vet has so far declined, he feels that such procedures are...unnecessary. He is, of course, wrong. The whole staff at the sealife centre are in shock, and as such I am offering what support I can in my unique position as both agent and close confidante of Paul to ease their suffering.’  

<<So, these predictions. Fascinating stuff. Can you now tell us how it was done?>>

‘What do you mean Mr Jones? He was a psychic octopus. I cannot presume to know how he performed such marvellous feats. His methods are a mystery as much to me as they are to you.’

<<Funny. But surely that now the octopus is deceased, you can let the cat out of the bag? We are all very interested to know the scientific rationality behind the stunt.>>

‘Mr Jones... Do you believe that through scientific explanation the existence of divinity inherent in preternatural phenomena can be rationally negated? Do you believe that your readers possess no curiosity as to the mere possibility that a lowly octopus could have been endowed with a higher cognitive ability than most humans could ever attain? Indeed, are you of the persuasion that scientific theory disproves all presence of the divine within the world? What is it, exactly, Mr Jones, that you believe?’

<< ..my editor just wants me to write a piece on the octopus, mate. I don’t believe in all that mumbo-jumbo malarkey, I reckon that centre fixed it up somehow. Rigged the boxes.’

‘How, precisely, would the centre have ‘rigged them boxes’? Spiked the mussels, perhaps? Do you suppose, Mr Jones, that our beloved Paul was involved in octopodal conspiracy with bookies worldwide in order to raise funds for an underground network of crooked molluscs? Or perhaps, that our good friends at the Sealife centre took it upon themselves to bestow their own precognitive abilities upon a popular children’s attraction...to what end precisely? You seem like a theorist, Mr Jones, please be so kind as to illuminate the room to the rational explanations which you believe will expand our own understanding of this preternatural phenomena exponentially, I am convinced they will fascinate and amaze.’

Nervous laughter travels around the room like a hesitant Mexican wave. The mood is uncertain, doubt lingers in the air like a stale air freshener, palpable yet indefinably unpleasant. An unpleasantness which cannot upset a genteel civility, more subtly rile it through backhanded jibes. A seed is what is necessary; a seed to germinate in the minds of the vulnerable, the impressionable, the needy, the lost. A seed to sprout in the hearts of those who long to believe.

<<All I know, right, is that an octopus can’t tell the future. He don’t know anything about football! He don’t know anything about anything! He’s a fucking octopus, mate! To be perfectly honest with you, I think you’re a bit off your rocker. Just tell us how it was done, that’s why we’re here. Here’s you, going on about divinity and preternatural whatever and its nonsense mate. Its bull. Either you know about the octopus, factual stuff, or you don’t. But we ain’t falling for this bollocks. >>

 

‘If he is simply a ‘fucking octopus’, as you so charmingly describe him, then why precisely are you here Mr Jones? Am I right in assuming that you cover the obituaries section for German sealife centres? I feel it is time to move on from this topic. Next question.’

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