I like peacocks. I am one myself. And I have one friend in particular who is a punk peacock. He is that rare bird which is unmistakably all that such a creature should be: loud, un-ignorable, dresses flash (you should see the linings of his suits; Hell, you should see his suits – pink silk, so you get my drift). But with an attitude. Wiv a bit of edge.
The peacock is a bird with more chutzpah than a Madam JoJo’s cabaret. More front than Brighton. It’s beautiful to be around. Yes, it has a screech on it (that distinctive “Mow” noise that cracks the dawn or shatters dusk) but that is just to make sure you know it’s there. You know, in case you miss the chance to see it in all its majesty.
Preening. Iridescent blue-green plumage. Imperious, piercing gaze. Cockney strut. Contrived calmness. And that’s just my friend.
Peacocks live charmed but precarious lives. My punk peacock operates between panic and pulchitrudiness. Between largesse and larceny. Strategies are heralded and then torn up like confetti. Investments can wither on the vine or spin out of control. Overheads mount up because a peacock needs a conspicuous lifestyle. Houses that sparkle, adorned with tailor made furniture and rare objet d’art; servants; expensive schools; lavish living; pools in the immaculate garden; rare cars; high roller holidays. Gold cards. Platinum cards. Multiple locations; Gatsby-esque parties.
Peacocks adorn your life. They enrich your mundanity. They crow and preen whilst others steadily accumulate. They are flash where others are quietly acquisitive. They glad hand it out in the open whilst others make deals in the shadows. Everyone envies their front; no one can compete with their grip on a room. But their glitter ball sparkle, whilst dazzling, is dangerous: no one guesses they are hanging by a thread. No one knows it’s all a trick of the eye. The heft is elsewhere along with the power.
When a peacock quits the stage – for that is what life is for a peacock: a stage – they do so to applause. The private panic that tortures them in the dressing room away from the lights and the crowd can only be imagined. And the compensation for the poverty underneath the show is the love we have for the stories they spin and the life lived in the glare of light. All is show. And if the mask slips, the show must go on.
A peacock’s life for me, then. Vain. Egotistical. But straight about it and open. Not for us the Machiavellian subtleties of the dark arts. The manoeuvring in the half light. The politics and pretence. We may be naive, but we make the world interesting. Without us, there are no stories. Without us, there is only deadness, seriousness and a column of pounds, shillings and pence. A balance sheet of credits and debits. A world with no colour. And what colours we bring.
My punk peacock always illuminates a room, levens a gathering. The chaos he brings, the fun, the outlandishness – there is no finer company. Peacocks will always provide you with an entertaining life – although it will be a hire wire act at times and exhausting. You will never be bored. You might be riding high in April, back down in May, so if you enjoy rollercoaster rides, marry a peacock. You will experience Heaven and Hell in one day. Most days. The view will be magnificent. The hangover severe. But when you finish, on your tombstone it will read:
What a ride!
Bill Hicks