It was with interest that I read, in a moment of procrastination, of the Swansea joker who recently ordered a Big Mac and fries at a MacDonalds drive-thru, not from his Renault Clio, nor from his Yamaha, nor even from a humble bicycle, but – and this is entirely true – from the saddle of a horse. I welcomed this news with a mixture of trepidation and delight. Trepidation, because MacDonalds drive-thrus are rarely far from busy roads, and having been inclined to suppose that horses and busy roads went about as well together as, say, aeroplanes and explosive devices, I could not but picture a traumatic sequence of events in which the frantic steed deposits its unfortunate rider into the path of an approaching juggernaut and leaves him to certain death between tyre and tarmac.
But amid such cynicism there was also, as I have said, delight. Mostly because it is a rare and refreshing thing to see a pair of warm-blooded creatures, breathing real air, in a place more often frequented by beings so attached to their cars that nothing – not even bags full of ground offal and saturated fat – will entice them out. Further explanation for my delight is, I feel, superfluous. What a gesture. A horse! At MacDonalds! Sir, I salute you.
Naturally, questions abound. Who is this man? Where can I find his address so that I might send him my knickers? And most importantly, what was the driving force (no pun intended) behind so rash and reckless an act?
I have a theory. Our friend, I like to think, is no mere joker. No! He is an artist. An innovator, if you will, or indeed, a cultural pioneer. Let us imagine that this was his debut performance as leader of the Historicalists, a movement that is uniting eccentrics and oddballs the country over and is soon to burst onto the modern art scene with revolutionary fervour. Its aim: to challenge the sterile, corporate modernity of the myriad establishments that, like MacDonalds, may once have been quirky, innovative and individual but are now bland, generic and everywhere. What! you cry – attacking the nasty capitalists that are stamping on independent businesses and turning our towns into identikit replicas? How, pray, are they to do such a thing without sounding like whiny Guardianistas?
Why, with a dash of retro glamour, my dear reader, mixed with a little self-disrespect and seasoned with a pinch of lunacy. Perhaps the next time our friend goes to a MacDonalds' drive-thru, he will not only be on a horse, but dressed in breeches, tails and a top hat. Perhaps Starbucks will report an influx of Dickensian yuppies with ledgers instead of laptops, who scratch away with quill pens as they sip their cappuccinos. Perhaps the toilets at Pret will crowd with ladies adjusting their powdered wigs; East End eel sellers will loiter at the entrance to Primark; Greggs will ring with the sweet music of medieval minstrels and when the Daily Mail reports a handsome cab pile-up in a Tesco car park, the petit-bourgeoisie will rise and say 'They've gone too far! This must stop! Art has gone mad!'
What better way to highlight the madness of modernity than with a little historic charm? It sounds much jollier than signing petitions and writing letters to oblivious MPs. I don't know about you, but I, for one, have every intention of joining them.
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