Moranifesto
Page 33
We must make things different. We must change them. That is, simply, our job.
For the ultimate purpose of politics should be to enable people to experience as much joy as possible before they die. We are only here a tiny wink of time—a snap of the fingers, barely enough time to get a proper round in. It’s a heartbreaking flash, really. You just start to work out what trousers suit you, or how to talk to the people you really love, and then you’re dead.
That is why when, as sometimes happens in politics, it is casually accepted that a whole generation will be raised under austerity; or a whole country’s economy will go to the wall; or those running, as fast as they can, away from a war are told they must simply . . . return to the war, as we can offer them no solutions here, I cannot help but grit my teeth.
There is no afterlife. This is it. To dismiss entire lives—those millions of heartbreaking flashes—as being irretrievably at the mercy of “unsolvable problems” is, frankly, in an age of impossible miracles and wonder, balls. It should make the blood pump—but not in anger. The blood should pump to the heart and the head, instead; it should make you tilt your chin upwards, and narrow your eyes, and go, slowly, “Nah—I don’t reckon. I think we probably could solve this, if we really wanted.”
However and whatever we decide we want our future to be, we must be remorseless—in our kindness.
We must be iron—in our demand that life be joyful.
We must not dare waste a second of our only, exploding existence, thinking that “It will be better . . . later” is ever a fit thing to say. If we say these things cannot be done, we are in denial of humanity. We are perversely proud to be small. And we are not. Trying. Hard. Enough.
Epilogue
This next piece has to come last in the book, for two reasons.
Firstly, because it’s the piece that, by far, received the biggest response I’ve ever had—partly because it is, obviously, a profound and powerful piece of writing, but mainly, I suspect, because it was re-Tweeted by Adele, who has twenty-three million followers. The results of being re-Tweeted by someone iconic with twenty-three million followers are interesting. Many of the responses I got were greatly moving—“Your piece has left me in tears.” “Thank you for saying to my teenage daughter what I could not say myself.”
But most of them were along the lines of: “@AdeleOfficial @caitlinmoran—Adele we love you in BRAZIL! Come play for your fans IN BRAZIL! I cry for you! I sing your song very much! BRAZIL LOVE YOU!” “@caitlinmoran PLEASE tell @AdeleOfficial I DIE FOR HER! It would make my LIFE!”
I have enjoyed wielding this supposed power. “No—Adele will NOT come and play in Brazil—as she says you don’t actually love her ENOUGH,” I will Tweet back, every so often, when bored. Or, “Adele is looking at your profile picture—and thinks you would look BETTER in a scoop-necked top. The V-neck isn’t doing it for you. ADELE HAS SPOKEN. ATTEND THE WORDS OF ADELE!”
And the second reason why this piece had to be last is very simple: It’s a posthumous letter. It is written from beyond the grave. It is the last thing I will ever say. Even with my natural optimism about my immortality, I know that, once you’re dead, there’s nothing more to say.
My Posthumous Letter to My Daughter
My daughter is about to turn thirteen and I’ve been smoking a lot recently, and so—in the wee small hours, when my lungs feel like there’s a small mouse inside them, scratching to get out—I’ve thought about writing her one of those “Now I’m Dead, Here’s My Letter of Advice for You to Consult as You Continue Your Now Motherless Life” letters. Here’s the first draft. Might tweak it a bit later. When I’ve had another fag.
Dear Lizzie,
Hello, it’s Mummy. I’m dead. Sorry about that. I hope the funeral was good—did Daddy play “Don’t Stop Me Now” by Queen when my coffin went into the cremator? I hope everyone sang along and did air guitar, as I stipulated. And wore the stick-on Freddie Mercury mustaches, as I ordered in the “My Funeral Plan” document that’s been pinned on the fridge since 2008, when I had that extremely self-pitying cold.
Look—here are a couple of things I’ve learned on the way that you might find useful in the coming years. It’s not an exhaustive list, but it’s a good start. Also, I’ve left you loads of life insurance money—so go hog wild on eBay on those secondhand vintage dresses you like. You have always looked beautiful in them. You have always looked beautiful.
The main thing is just to try to be nice. You already are—so lovely I burst, darling—and so I want you to hang on to that and never let it go. Keep slowly turning it up, like a dimmer switch, whenever you can. Just resolve to shine, constantly and steadily, like a warm lamp in the corner, and people will want to move towards you in order to feel happy, and to read things more clearly. You will be bright and constant in a world of dark and flux, and this will save you the anxiety of other, ultimately less satisfying things like “being cool,” “being more successful than everyone else,” and “being very thin.”
Second, always remember that, nine times out of ten, you probably aren’t having a full-on nervous breakdown—you just need a cup of tea and a biscuit. You’d be amazed how easily and repeatedly you can confuse the two. Get a big biscuit tin.
Third, always pick up worms off the pavement and put them on the grass. They’re having a bad day, and they’re good for . . . the earth or something (ask Daddy more about this; am a bit sketchy).
Fourth, choose your friends because you feel most like yourself around them, because the jokes are easy and you feel like you’re in your best outfit when you’re with them, even though you’re just in a T-shirt. Never love someone who you think you need to mend—or who makes you feel like you should be mended. There are boys out there who look for shining girls; they will stand next to you and say quiet things in your ear that only you can hear and that will slowly drain the joy out of your heart. The books about vampires are true, baby. Drive a stake through their hearts and run away.
Stay at peace with your body. While it’s healthy, never think of it as a problem or a failure. Pat your legs occasionally and thank them for being able to run. Put your hands on your belly and enjoy how soft and warm you are—marvel over the world turning over within, the brilliant meat clockwork, as I did when you were inside me and I dreamed of you every night.
Whenever you can’t think of something to say in a conversation, ask people questions, instead. Even if you’re next to a man who collects pre-seventies screws and bolts, you will probably never have another opportunity to find out so much about pre-seventies screws and bolts, and you never know when it will be useful.
This segues into the next tip: life divides into AMAZING ENJOYABLE TIMES and APPALLING EXPERIENCES THAT WILL MAKE FUTURE AMAZING ANECDOTES. However awful, you can get through any experience if you imagine yourself, in the future, telling your friends about it as they scream, with increasing disbelief, “NO! NO!” Even when Jesus was on the cross, I bet He was thinking, “When I rise in three days, the disciples aren’t going to believe this when I tell them about it.”
Babyiest, see as many sunrises and sunsets as you can. Run across roads, looking both ways, to smell fat roses. Always believe you can change the world—even if it’s only a tiny bit, because every tiny bit needed someone who changed it. Think of yourself as a silver rocket—use loud music as your fuel, books like maps and coordinates for how to get there. Host extravagantly, love constantly, dance in comfortable shoes, talk to Daddy and Nancy about me every day, and never, ever start smoking. It’s like buying a fun baby dragon that will grow and eventually burn down your f***ing house.
Love, Mummy
About the Author
Caitlin Moran was named Columnist of the Year by the Press Awards in 2010 and Critic and Interviewer of the Year in 2011 for her work at The Times of London. Her debut book, How to Be a Woman, was an instant New York Times bestseller; her first novel, How to Build a Girl, was published in 2014 to widespread acclaim. Caitlin lives with her h
usband and two children on Twitter (@caitlinmoran), where she spends her time tweeting either about civil rights issues or that picture of Bruce Springsteen when he was twenty-five and had his shirt off. She would like to be remembered as “a very sexual humanitarian.”
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
Also by Caitlin Moran
How to Be a Woman
Moranthology
How to Build a Girl
Copyright
Originally published in Great Britain in 2016 by Ebury Press, an imprint of Ebury Publishing, A Random House Group Company.
moranifesto. Copyright © 2016 by Casa Bevron, Ltd. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers.
first u.s. edition
Digital Edition NOVEMBER 2016 ISBN: 9780062433763
Print ISBN: 978–0–06–243375–6 (pbk.)
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* Although, of course, had the station controller known about Baconnaise, the entire daytime schedule could be different.