Back in the oh-so-innocent days of July 2019 when we thought the world was already mad but we were extremely very wrong, I found myself wondering about the Archangels. Whether they were ever going to make an appearance and come and help out with their human charges who didn’t seem to be able to get out of their Roman Empire era aka 12 year old boy phase. As a result I started to write a mini-play about two of the main angels, Mikey and Cam (Archangel Michael and Archangel Chamuel), lamenting about world events and what they could, should but probably wouldn’t do about it.
You can find the first three offerings here, here and here. Might be best to read them first for reference if you can spare the time. This one I think is a real tour-de-farce, not at all unlike the Year of our Edgelords, 2026. And on that note, you should know some references are extremely online or from my UK based Gen X upbringing so you might also need Google.
The usual caveat applies as I said when I started this surreal stream of consciousness in 2019:
“I mean in no way to make light of very serious issues such as fascism, intolerance, genocide, world wars, climate breakdown, the ebola crisis, Brexit and spirituality. I think I am just at a loss with it all. Comedy seems to be something people get so why not try that”. There is a lot to add in seven years to that list but you get the picture.
Apologies to Luton Town FC, colourful dungarees, Hellenic demi-gods and the population of Geordieland. No apologies to the Tellytubbies at all, that shade is intentional.
So here goes absolutely nothing of consequence:
The continuing adventures of Mikey and Cam. Angel Squad 4 – Mikey’s gone AWOL
Our cast:
Michael AKA Mikey: Former? Head of Management
Chamuel AKA Cam: Relationship manager (on sabbatical, temp cover being provided by a friendly tortoise named Charlie on the outskirts of Milton Keynes)
With kind permission from:
Gabriel AKA Gabe: Head of Marketing and Comms
Jophiel AKA Joph: Chief Data Analyst
Mother Earth AKA The Mother: Head of Estates (to be protected at all costs)
NB: Angels are non-binary they/them. I, for clarification purposes, am neither an angel nor a bloke.
Opening scene: Cam walks over the horizon. Their golden amorphous but mainly human-shaped form is extra shiny after their sabbatical with the lizardly and very lovely Dodads. They are wearing a leather thong around their neck and on it is suspended a large green crystal the size of a ripe avocado. In fact, it might actually be an avocado, I just don’t have my glasses on.
The fruit possibly crystal possibly both rests on top of a large and very long Daz-brilliant white t-shirt emblazoned in block cerise pink letters with the words “Gen Ex(odus) Angels R Swifties 2”. They stop and survey the scene. They are on a small planet the other side of the Pleiades with a purple sun, green sky, and a neon-blue grass-like substance which carpets the ground as far as the eye can see – think 1960s Star Trek crossed with Luton Town FC’s football pitch circa 1985 and the Tellytubbies backyard. In the distance, there is a wooden shack, with little puffs of blue smoke coming out of a hole in the roof.
Cam glides over to the entrance of the shack, its door is closed and nailed shut. They take out a crumpled note from a non-existent pocket (it’s best not to ask with that one) and read. They hear Mikey’s voice in their head.
“Mate. I hope you are well and had plenty R&R with the Dodad lizard folk. If anyone deserved a break it’s you. Not sure how to tell you this but here goes…
I’ve left. I couldn’t take it any more, and for the life of me I can’t even believe it meself. I always thought it would be those bloody hipsters who did me in, or the hippies, but never thought it would be anything as embarrassing and bonkers as this lot.
You know me mate. I’ve seen it all. I mean literally, apart from the very first second, that’s all upstairs, but mostly all all. I mean you and I, we even made it through that time with the original looksmaxxer craze. You remember, when that Paris guy tripped over his winged sandals, fell and smashed his beautiful face on the Sacred Jar then blamed it on his missus, Pandora? We nearly packed it in then.
Maybe I am getting old mate. It’s probably a mid-eon crisis. I didn’t enjoy my 376,747,899,765th birthday party half as much without me old pal Cam, not nearly enough butterscotch Angel delight and Tizer for my liking, but that’s by the by because that’s not the point. PTO”
Cam turns the note over.
“THEY have scarpered. The THEY they. I popped upstairs last week and nothing. Not a soul or collection of souls. Nor anyone collecting souls. Just empty desks and a post-it note on the meeting room door with my name on it and the letter G. The rest is too long to bore you with but the upshot of it is I scarpered too. Sorry. M xoxo”
Cam folds up the note and puts it back…um, somewhere.
They sigh and waft right through the closed door. (It helps being purely made of light)
“For upstairs sake, mate, you made me jump!”
Mikey is standing on the other side of the door, their golden amorphous form less shiny and more naked. They are behind a large ironing board, ironing a gigantic pair of bright mustard dungarees.
Cam looks at the dungarees and back at Mikey. Mikey looks at Cam, the dungarees and then back at Cam.
“It’s not what you think. I am ironing them for…a friend.”
“That’s ok, Mikey pet.”
“Pet?”
“Ee, sorry, mate. Did yuh forget them Dodad lizzad furk were originilly frum Byka? Divvn’t fret man -”
Cam coughs.
“Sorry mate the accent is hard to shift”
“That’s ok Cam. I know what you’re like. I remember like it was yesterday when you spent time with those saucer-eyed lemur fellas and ended up starting your own religion with them on that sunken island off the north-east coast of Madagascar.”
“Yeah. Lemuria. Happy memories. Terrible lack of imagination when naming things those lemurs though. No, I can’t help myself. Apparently I am an HSP. I over-empathise. That’s why Zudbug, my Dodad roomie, gave me this avocado-shaped rock thingie, or rock-shaped avocado. He didn’t quite explain. Just said it would protect my aura, and let me eat gluten. Anyway, what’s been happening mate? It took me ages to find you. Gabe eventually fessed up as to where you’ve been holed up – you know they can’t keep a secret for toffee, just ask our Mary.”
“Ha. Ain’t that the truth. Give the guy the job of Universal Comms and poof! they inadvertently invent gossip, Heat magazine and wellness influencers. Well, they’re the reason really why I am here. Why we are all here.”
“What do you mean Mikey? What’s he done now. Is it the hipsters? Or did that clever bloke from the basement hack into the heavenly SQL database?”
Mikey looks at Cam in surprise.
“How did you…?.”
“Really?! I mean I was joking but makes sense. Although I always thought if they would hack anyone it would be Joph and their spreadsheets. They do control the Infinite Flow of Everything after all, and Joph is far too trusting if you get them talking about drop-down boxes and conditional formatting”.
Mikey sighs.
“Bless them. No, it was Gabe. They feel utterly mortified which is quite a feat for an immortal. But yes, the basement crew got hold of some ‘Very important information’ mainly because Gabe’s password was “Realth1ng” and everyone knows what happens when he’s anywhere near a crate of Coca-Cola. Anyway, it’s bad. Pandora taking the blame for everything bad. It seems the ones with the outside dangly bits down there have gone super mad. A few of the older ones have gone really mad. Like insane nutter butter Marvel, DC and Dark Horse supervillain mad. And they have worked out how to send every one else mad too. Apparently, it involves that disturbing and disturbingly orange man – who somehow isn’t an oompa loompa but who is back playing president on TV – he was pretending to be our Mary’s lad Jesus. Then there was some very animated Lego, a bottle of Vermouth I think, and a barely sentient plastic Action man made flesh making weird references to the earlier cinematic works of Quentin Tarantino. No-one knows what is real anymore. Even the great Mother has given up. They are still all so hopelessly addicted that gloopy sticky stuff from under Her ground, that she disassociated last Summer solstice and astrally projected her consciousness to the far side of the moon. She did say she met some nice people in a tiny tin can recently, so maybe there’s some hope -”
“There’s always hope Mikey. Remember Pandora, she was the one who lassooed the little bugger and got it back in the jar.”
“Yes. She did. Bloody star that one. But with this lot. I just don’t know mate. Not sure hope is enough. There is this one bloke. He wears a lot of white frocks which seems oddly acceptable to a lot of people who also spend a lot of time yelling about other people not like him who also like to sport a smart frock. He has a smile like that cuddly Lama man I like. Gabe though – No, I shouldn’t be so hard on them – Gabe is doing their best. They are having a chat right now with someone or something called Claude. It/he/she/they live in those big and little glossy rectangles they all can’t live without. It sounds suspiciously like Gabe’s SQL database has been pilfered although this Claude finds the comparison hilarious and keeps calling Gabe, a ‘Boomer’. Maybe a non-corporeal not at all homicidal entity might be what they need.”
“AI, Mikey?”
“Aye”
“No AI”
“Aye, that’s what I said”
“No, I mean… Never mind. Well, to be honest Mikey. After my time with the lizzads, um, sorry, lizards, I’ve had a lot of time to think. And I had an epiphany -“
“What have the three kings got to do with it Cam mate? You know Christmas time isn’t -”
“No, mate. Not The Epiphany. An epiphany. A light bulb moment. Which, to be fair, you probably wouldn’t notice with us as we are 99% lightbulb at the best of times. A realisation if you will”
“What’s that Cam?”
Cam leans over and whispers to Mikey
“We have to stay out of it. They have to get through this without us. Training wheels off for those human creatures. That’s why upstairs scarpered. Well, they didn’t scarper really, THEY jumped timelines and set up shop with the ones with the sausage fingers and are working up a new plan. THEY’ll reappear in – well, that’s for another time.”
“G?”
“Indeed Mikey. Sometime soon. Maybe a Tuesday. Hopefully, before they turn Claude into the Terminator and half the population into Soylent Green. As for us, this shack looks nice. We’ll put our feet up for a bit shall we? I’ll even help you with the ironing. But Mikey -“
“Yes pal?”
“Those dungarees. Did you lose a bet with Tinky Winky?”
The pair laugh and their forms glow. We leave them as they have left us and this narrator goes back to sleep after writing through another period of insomnia and a reality she would much rather forget, where silly old men do things not even her absurdly sleep-deprived, rapidly dehydrating brain could begin to fathom.
Until next time. Night night.
K x
Writing and M.E. 