Chun Han Wong

To believe in anything, one must first doubt everything. But it’s a fine line between rational doubt and the fanatical pursuit of elusive “truths”

Everyone loves a good conspiracy theory. It is the panacea for righteous citizens who spend their lives helplessly frustrated at the shameful overtures of their government. The chicken soup for an activist/pacifist/anarchist’s soul. The perfect antidote for the limitless void left in my heart when my soul was so brutally ripped out over a decade ago when vicious MI6 agents snuffed out ‘the candle in the wind’.

As a young and impressionable teenager, I regaled in the brilliant and lucidly illustrated tales of fantasy and science-fiction. Being the black sheep that I was, and indeed still am, J. K. Rowling’s random ramblings on the prepubescent adventures of a scar-faced wizardry protégé just didn’t quite cut it with me. Instead, my bedtime stories would feature a selection of prose from NASA-bashers of the likes of Bill Kaysing and Bart Sibrel. My MSN nickname reads ‘Loose Change’ and I ritualistically greet strangers with Freemason handshakes.

Conspiracies fuel me. My lifeblood. My soul.

So when I learnt that a former ‘C’ was dropping by the LSE to deliver an impassioned defence of the recent sex-laced escapades of Agent 007, there simply was no chance I could pass up on attending this lecture of a lifetime. A grand opportunity to watch fellow conspiracy theorists at their shameless and glorious best, firing questions of derision and queries of accusation away with brazen impunity. And a chance to seek some belated justice for our beloved Lady D.

For all the hullabaloo that preceded this day of reckoning, the audience was strangely hushed when the Abomination himself, Sir Richard Dearlove KCMG OBE SOB, stepped into the arena. Perhaps they were cowed by the prospect of unseen marksmen, with fingers on the triggers ready to blow any dissident away to kingdom come. I myself would like to believe that everyone present were in awe of the fact that, for the next hour and a half, the Old Theatre would become Conspiracy Central. That the mayhem that was to follow would not be recorded or podcasted by the School was damning – the former MI6 honcho was indeed hiding unspeakable truths up his sleeves.

The content of the lecture was irrelevant. It merely set the stage for the deluge that followed – the hailstorm of indictments, once unleashed, never let up. I was in for a conspiracy theorist masterclass of inane sarcasm, shameless catcalls and mind-boggling logic leaps. Barely minutes into the verbal crossfire, I realised that I was way out of my depth.

Their intricate knowledge of the complex realities behind political facades was remarkable. Their veracious, scorn-laced exposés left nothing to the imagination. The revelations were out of this world. Mossad agents were seen leaping for joy during the 9/11 attacks. The chief planner of the 7/7 London bombings was actually an MI6 agent. The CIA is the world’s largest drug-trafficking organisation. Dearlove was a member of the secretive high cabal known as the Bildeberg group. The dodgy Iraq dossier was fabricated to justify invasion. Courtney Love killed Kurt Cobain. Paul McCartney did die in 1966. Confronted with the finest in the business, I finally realised that it was with great naivety that I had believed in my own omniscience as a conspiracy theorist.

Pelted with stinging accusations from all fronts, the once-haughty Dearlove was reduced to a hapless heap in his chair, retorting lamely with meandering rhetoric and outright refusals to answer pointed questions. Denial by denial, refutation by refutation, his credibility was slowly eroded by the caustic truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Stripped bare of any integrity he may have had, ‘C’ beat a hasty retreat to the Senior Dining Room. Victory was at hand.

We’ve done it again. The conspiracy theorists have struck another blow against our fascist leaders in the name of democracy and freedom. With another political puppet master heckled into submission, the world has become just that bit safer a place for us informed global citizens. A euphoric sense of achievement emanated across the Old Theatre, as  the victorious armchair whistleblowers exchanged congratulatory handshakes. Another laurel to add to past glories – the likes of Flat Earth, Roswell, Bermuda Triangle, ‘Magic bullet’ at Dealey Plaza, Hollywood Moon landings, Novus Ordo Mundi, the Da Vinci Code and the Downing Street Memo.

But sadly for me, this hour of glory was also time of pensive self-reflection. Nothing except a government crony escaping scot-free can be half as melancholy as a government crony exposed. For all my conspiracy credentials, I was merely a wishful pretender to the throne – the proverbial frog in the well. I should have known; saving the world at the frontlines of conspiracy forums and internet blogdom is the prerogative of  seasoned conspiracy warriors. A sabbatical is in order, during which I shall commit the entire Wikipedia list of conspiracy theories to memory. Only then can I face down the dreadful lies of our politicians with scornful contempt and shed light on the darkest secrets of our time. I shall not be denied. For the truth is out there.