It all began with a nice old man who lived on our street,
talking to me about some flowers that he’d grown in his garden. I think over
time I have perhaps, if not sanitized this old man, at least Disney- field him.
For now, in my mind’s eye, when I cast my thoughts back, I see a twinkle-eyed
Geppetto character, smoking a pipe and wearing lederhosen as he tends to his
nasturtiums. They beam back at him and grin – perhaps even jigging about like
the battery –operated dancing flowers that were to become popular a decade or
so later. The passage of time has also allowed me to lacquer the memory with
the old man’s unexpressed suspicion that I were in need of a patriarch, a
father figure, and him being all kind and guiding me toward an understanding of
nature. As I recall it now, he put a fatherly arm around me, and what he said
next could almost be a song from The Lion King about the cycle of life. “And
all these flowers grow, and one day they die, but they’ll grow again. These
flowers are perennial. Their seed is eternal. Flower begets flower and on we
must go- from now until the end of time. Always it were thus, like a line of
human bellybuttons stretching back to Adam and Eve.” Then, the old man paused. “Oh
well,” he said, “I’ll just pop into the toilet for a wee… Don’t stamp on those
flowers, will you?” “Don’t stamp on those flowers… “Why say that? Had he not
parted with the words, “Don’t stamp on those flowers,” I wouldn’t have. It just
wouldn’t’ve occurred to me. I might have stamped on one to make an example of
it. But in the sentence, “Don’t stamp on those flowers,” the word “don’t” is
feeble, important and easy to ignore. Whereas “STAMP ON THOSE FLOWERS” has a
real linguistic verve; “stamp on those flowers” could be a slogan, a
catchphrase, a banner under which nations could unite. So the moment he
shuffled out of view, all old and friendly, I stamped on them flowers. I stampeded
till there was naught but mush, till they were but a memory of flowers; I
stamped with a ferocity that meant that flowers everywhere would never again
feel safe. It was a floral 9/11. I knew it was bad but I couldn’t deny the
urge; I know why them medieval loons were so keen to believe in demonic
possession because I gave vent in that moment to a timeless darkness, the
parameters of which extend beyond my being and transgress the very borders of evil
itself. I was angry toward them flowers – just growing there, thinking they
were better than us.
Russel Brand, "My booky wook"
