We’re a culture of irony and self-referentiality, but also one of mass truth-seeking. We want to know things at last from the unvarnished universe as much as we want to toss them into a meme mashup. It’s this stir of integrity and disingenuousness that has propelled the plan to storm Area 51 on the 20th September.
You’ve probably heard about it. Reddit has. So has the US government, whose bullshit inspired such lunacy, and they know they have to at least take it a little seriously because they are serious about the secrets no-one’s sharing, just as millions of us are serious about mocking them. Our enlightened age (just like Enlightenment No. One, Two, Three etc., which happens when cultures think they’re the Don Corleone of civilisation every once in a while) tells us that we deserve truth. Justice. An American lay. But those first two first. The Area 51 attack is another dose of mass, organic satire that weaponizes our imagination, even if we’re too pussy to actually do anything more than upvote.
Where else could we thoroughly invade? Which secretive places are next on the list, because dammit, we have an online army to co-ordinate with Dorito-dusted fingertips?
I’ve got some candidates below. The truth is out here.
Kim Jong Un’s bedchamber
One day in the faraway mist of the 1980s, a man broke into the Queen of England’s bedroom at seven in the morning. We could replicate that, but Her Maj is frailer now, and she hasn’t warranted our mistrust since Diana. So who’s a better target? Mr. Jong Un, step forward. Or actually, don’t. Stay in oblivious bliss. We’re coming for ya, you old crème puff pastry . . .
Breaking into Kim’s private quarters would be a tonic for Western-Korean relations, since we might find a common taste or mantlepiece quirk. Definitely not loops of rope that truss him up in the middle of a sex pentagram while prostitutes wearing masks of UN members spank his toffee-soft arse. Certainly not a big screen playing the Disney redux of Bambi where the deer just blow up one after the other and a Pyongyang tank rolls in at the end. Nope. Regular stuff, like dildos.
Chance of success: Fair-to-good. You’d start a world war but have an ace Pinterest board if you make it out.
Disneyland Club 33
Speaking of Disney, Walt was a bit of a schmoozer. He fashioned one of the most exclusive dinner clubs in the world, dying five months before the inaugural opening in Los Angeles. Members pay tens of thousands of dollars to stay on the waiting list for a decade or more. Once you’re in though, you’re in. The food looks intense, while staff are meant to greet you with Goofy inspired smiles. The hushed wonder of the architecture, art collections and eye-watering Le Grand Salon bar are reserved for the rich and famous, although there have been sneaky shots on an Insta account for muddy regulars like us.
Yep – sounds pretty invade-able to me. Would the Great Man Himself have wanted to exclude regular people from his top-brass brand of magic? Probably. But let’s all have a boutique experience together in the name of utilitarianism. Rush the gates. Kidnap the jazz players, and holler Oasis requests while we’re ball-soaked in whiskey.
Chance of success: Great I’d say. Because we’re basically attacking Disneyland. You already have a theme park’s worth of sleeper agents to activate, and more warriors who can throw ladders and grappling hooks over the walls to help.
Beyoncé’s dance studio
This would require total, au naturel mole work. I mean years of careful graft to A) forge a dance career, B) meet Beyoncé, C) earn said diva’s trust and D) find out where she bumps a routine into shape. Why? Because she is the reclusive, larger-than-Lakshmi goddess in our pop lexicon, the star who everyone basically loves despite the fact we never see her chatting in the street or carrying a panini in her sweatpants or discernibly breathing oxygen. Beyoncé is barely an earthly creature. Like the carving of a pharaoh, she is too vast an idea to relate to, a glitter-thighed super warrior who you can barely believe ever gets her foot caught in a jean leg.
That’s why we should infiltrate her inner circle and see the magic at work. It’d take one aforementioned patsy to find where the dance rehearsals are staged. They should burrow into Bey’s life and give us GPS updates on the sly. Then, at last, hundreds of us move in and catch her midway though her Rocket routine. And just watch. Be awed. Find the pinnacle of our entertainment industry within hugging distance, security floored by our collective love/duct tape.
Chance of success: Remote as fuck due to the sensitive one-person scheme. What if you chicken out and begin to act in her interests, instead of ours? Sounds like a pre-teen thriller with more finger snaps than usual . . .
The Chauvet cave
Parties are an excuse to be cavepeople for a day. We hoot, hug and gyrate as if there’s never a tomorrow worth thinking about. For the Chauvet-Pont-d'Arc Cave system – a Palaeolithic art feature that’s closed to the public, at least until we learn how to dodge falling stalactites - we could quite rightly claim to turn up with a speaker, lights, Daft Punk and Red Stripe beer, reclaiming our Neanderthal ways to remind ourselves why we’re all the same in a loincloth.
Providing we’re respectful, there shouldn’t be an issue. We can butt heads like bison, swim in underground lagoons, lick salt from the walls in vain hopes of a psychedelic fritz. The only people holding us back would be skinny researches. Once overwhelmed, they’d probably join in, breaking to give us cow-jawed insights about the half-man-half-bull painting and why it reminds them of their ex. In times of division and techno-stress, we could rewind the clock, dancing in a place that stands for our common cradle of what it means to be sweaty meat bags in any century.
Chance of success: Good enough to tutor our e-army in cave etiquette. In the face of muted resistance, it’d be a case of running down there and proving we aren’t savages, apart from the hair and the rave license. So tread softly. We want to get invited back next year.
Any more suggestions? Let us know.