We were at dinner with some old friends last night. No, not that old actually, but we’ve known
them for . . . OK, hundreds of years.
It’s an extraordinary coincidence, but we met them overseas, as I say,
many years ago, and then, when we returned to this country, after much
globe-trotting, we discovered that they lived just down the road from us. Well, perhaps that isn’t such a coincidence –
we both pronounce ‘bus’ as ‘bas’, rather than ‘boos’, and we both the sort who like a nice
cool pinot on a patio and to listen to Radio 3 and despise people who walk around
the High Street in the summer in their vests. And neither of us shops at Tescos. So maybe we both felt the gravitational pull
of Surrey.
Anyway, the conversation, after dinner, as is often the case
at parties, turned to the origin of the species. Well after we'd done the high cost of staff, the scourge of benefit cheats and the impact of Holly Willoughby's decollete appearance, obviously.
I don’t go along with all this ape stuff
incidentally, do you? I mean I can
accept that Man came from apes, but has anyone found a skeleton or a fossil of
something that went before apes, linking them with amphibious reptiles or
something? So where did the apes come
from?
Anyway back to the sofa and the postprandial Drambuies. My friend had recently been to the movies and seen
a film with some frightening content and had made an interesting. He wondered why such films were so enjoyable and indeed why the audience had
enjoyed being scared. His conclusion
was that human beings need adrenalin to survive. It’s a thought, isn’t it. I mean, think of the prevalence of horror
films at the moment. All those zombies
for example. By the way, who was it
decided that zombies should eat human flesh?
The original undead in Haitian culture was summoned back with voodoo for a specific purpose and
the word ‘zombie’ came much later on in US literature as some sort of black slave. It was not though until The Night of the
Living Dead in the 60s that undead creatures feasted on humans and I don’t
think the word ‘zombie’ was used in that film either.
And then, getting back to adrenalin, there are these
increasingly scary fairground rides.
Whatever happened to the straightforward ghost train? Even our local zoo has something described as
‘the most fearsome ride since the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse’ or some such. So what induces people to get on it?! Well, the answer might well be vitalising adrenalin. Perhaps life has become too bland these days, with none
of the coal mine disasters or plane crashes or measles epidemics or blitzkriegs
(or is it blitzkriege?) that our parents used to suffer. Or maybe they only survived because of this
regular stimulation of adrenalin flow? So perhaps we
have to seek out these terrifying activities to keep our life-preserving chemical
levels up.
I had similar thoughts today as I walked along the
beach. No, that’s actually not such a dangerous pastime, but I have often wondered, when at the coast, about our love of the sea. You know how on a hike you emerge from a
forest or breast a hill and see a panorama of fields and villages and so
on. Well, you might stand there in awe for a
moment of two, but you don’t sit and stare and say, ‘oh, look at that cottage
down there’, or ‘wow, there are twenty-seven sheep in that field’, or indeed
focus on any of the many details in that vista, do you. But come across a view out across the sea and
frankly we could sit there for hours (and sometimes do) just staring at
it. No thought of remarking on a speck
of a yacht on the horizon or a wave that reminds you of your next door neighbour’s
coiffure, you just sit and stare at it.
And there’s actually nothing there – no village, or field of sheep, nor any familiar waves in actual fact. Nothing.
So what’s that sea fever all about?
Well, I think it has a lot to do with our evolution. I think I may have mentioned this before. Clearly we still have a gene that makes us
subconsciously hanker after submerging ourselves back into the ocean. When we stop and stare at the sea, the sight
has triggered some primeval nostalgia that, beyond our comprehension, stirs in our
sensory databanks and sparks in our psyche, harking back to the era when Earth
was one great ocean and Man was still an amoeba or a plankton or just some chemical
impulse in the sea.
But there’s something missing here, isn’t there. Why don’t we feel a connection to apes? Apart from a long-running obsession with
chimpanzees and tea parties, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a human looking
at a monkey and feeling anything stir inside them, except perhaps a thought
that it reminds them of their neighbour, what with the wavy fringe and all. So, if they are indeed our closest relatives,
shouldn’t the sight of one in the zoo stimulate some base instinct in us? Should we not feel instinctive horror at
their being caged, or empathy with their miserable existence, or even fancy one
of them a bit, like we all did with Ari in Planet of the Apes. Now you see, Ari fancied Mark Wahlberg (and I
think we all expected him to fancy Ari), but there was no prehistoric genetic
uncontrollable attachment involved, that was all to do with Hollywood instinctive
script-writing. And in real life there
isn’t any automatic reaction either.
In fact we feel far more attachment to dogs or cats. And I don't think anyone has ever posited that we're descended from them. Yet why the closeness then? And
what has that to do with big dippers and the sea? And why are we here?
In Surrey I mean. What primal impulse led us to the summit of the Surrey Hills with nothing but pinot to provide the stimulation to survive? Oh, and Holly Willoughby's dress sense of course.
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