Will Self: PsychoGeography

The crude facts

(Picutre by Ralph Steadman)

This is a prescient image; Ralph drew it in the early 1970s during the Opec-organised oil price hikes. At that time, those with their field artillery positioned on the commanding heights of Western economies sold us the line that all we were seeing was a flexing of the Gulf rulers' muscles, entirely to be anticipated in the post-colonial era, and so nothing to fret about. Ralph – and some others – knew better; the golden gushing age was trickling to a halt.

And yet ... and yet, why is it that there still remain few more dolorous phrases in current usage than "replacement bus service"; as in: "On behalf of Hull Trains I would like to advise passengers that due to the swing bridge at Goole being stuck, this service will terminate at Selby, from where a replacement bus service will operate to Doncaster." Now, just imagine what this announcement will be like in 30 years time: "On behalf of Hull Coaches I would like to advise passengers that due to one of the horses losing its shoe you're gonna have to get out and push."

Of course, if you speak to geologists (I have, and I advise the judicious use of stimulant drugs when doing so, to avoid falling into a deep stupor), you'll discover that there's a fair amount of dispute as to whether the oil peak has been reached, or even if it exists at all. To hear some of them speak, there remains so much oil sloshing about inside the earth that it's a wonder we don't strike it every time we fork the garden. It's just that it costs a lot to extract it, they'll say, or, governments lack the political will.

Meanwhile, spotty young men sit on the Tube reading self-published books by doom-mongers in the sticks with titles like Processing Your Liver: The End of Oil, while self-satisfied eco-bourgeois spend thousands on Japanese hybrid cars that are so sinisterly silent that you'll never notice you're about to get run over. Personally, I think their owners should be compelled to equip them with loudspeakers that intone: "I am a self-satisfied eco-bourgeois ..." over and over again; after all, can there be anything more fatuous than investing in such technology, when your huge carbon footprint is formed mostly by flights to Bilbao to visit the art gallery?

But if it's grim up north London, how bad is it in the provinces? Recent surveys following the oil price hikes suggest that more and more people are – gulp! – opting not to take car journeys. Mostly, these are older – and wiser – people, while the boy and girl racers love their cars so very much that they'll team up and carry the things bodily rather than leave them at home. I was on the aforementioned Hull Trains service the other Sunday and fell into conversation with the young mother opposite me, who was feeding her four-month-old some oleaginous pap. Apropos of my mentioning that I had four children, she said: "We'd like to have four, but then we'd have to buy a people carrier."

Astonishing! It has to be the first time I've ever heard of vulgarly large cars as a means of population control – perhaps what we need to do is threaten everyone in the developing world with a Renault Espace, and that will make the planet bigger once again. On the same short break in Yorkshire, I had three other encounters, all of which underscored the difficulties people are going to have with adapting to a world with declining oil supplies. There was the man who told me Hornsea was "five minutes away by car, but I've no idea how long it would take on foot". No idea? This suggests any or all of the following: he didn't know how fast cars go; he didn't know how fast people walk; he was incapable of even basic arithmetic; or, he didn't even know people could walk.

Then there was the nice lady I asked for directions to Withernsea, and before I could prevent her she launched into an exhaustive explanation, detailing the A this and the B that, and where to turn at the lights – all this after I'd already told her that I was walking there. As for the driver of the car that slowed down beside me as I toddled into Mappleton, he could see that I had a rucksack on my back and a map in my hand – hardly the signs of a local. Nevertheless, he still asked me where the nearest petrol station was. Bizarrely, he didn't take it well when I suggested that he pre-empt running out of fuel by turning off his engine and searching for it on foot. As he and his wife were kicking and pummelling me in a high-octane frenzy, I had the gumption to cry out, "Don't worry if you run out of petrol, there's a replacement bus service!" And this poured oil on their troubled waters.