Future Tense Conditional

The year is 2013, I am lying on my ergonomic, orthopaedic body-moulding sofa. I am staring at the
ceiling watching cetacean philosophical discussion. I speak dolphin now, along with many other humans.
John C Lilly's pioneering research was embraced by both the Soviets and the Americans during the cold war. Dolphin along with the other cetacean dialects, whale and porpoise were cracked during the mid 80's and we've been directly interacting with the aforementioned species ever since." I live where I die, no breath in the ocean. Swim, eat, excrete, when still I'm in motion" continued
 Dr. Akaka Click one the most interesting philosophers of our time. Unable to concentrate, I simply issue a clear, precise instruction, first to 'Pause' and then to 'archive' the debate for later.
 I rise from my sofa and step over my sanitation bot, vacuuming away some dropped kale chips, for deposit in the recycling chute. I seek the recipe for the latest mind enhancing drug
on my computer and once I've found it, instruct a fully equipped 3-D printer to print out a dose.
 I swallow the resulting pill and don my Virtual Reality body suit for an interface conference
 with a set of like-minded strangers. We discuss the futures market for high efficiency atmosphere
purifying plants. That's plants as in greenery not plants as in factories. We all now live in eco-cities
since we recognised this was essential to both our continued survival and well-being. Flush toilets
are an ancient curiosity. All urine is drained away to have the nutrients refined out of it for use
in agriculture. All shit is instantly vapourised in order to charge one of the large batteries which powers all my appliances. I take several special tablets every morning to protect the ends of my
telomeres. I hope to attain a state of negligible senescence. If my efforts prove successful I will be  physically the same in 30yrs as I am now. I am psychologically geared to activating any one of the eight circuits of human consciousness at will. The drug I have ingested will activate the 8th circuit and generate a peak experience.

So much for that shit....

I'm sitting on my beaten up old sofa with terrible posture. Eating over-cooked microwave popcorn
while watching The Jeremy Kyle Show. A gathering of some the least evolved people in Britain.
I have lost the remote and so rise from my torpor in order to change channel. I trip over the cat, who,
although disinclined to eat popcorn, is more than happy to play with it. I would endeavour to clean the living room if only the Dyson wasn't fucked. My head hurts from the excesses of the previous evening. Far from desiring to be more 'turned on' to my current reality state, I seem intent upon blotting it out. I take a swig from an ancient, crusted bottle of Calpol in the absence of any proper analgesics and head out into the world. The planet as it exists now is not peopled by sophisticated transhumans, deeply engaged with their task of  'building the earth'. Half of these fuckers can't even be bothered to brush their teeth or indeed instruct their children to do so. The lingua franca is a peculiar, hybrid, argot a product of various cultural influences. Peppered heavily with Anglo-Saxon terms for various parts and functions of the human body. A body which, despite various personal efforts to slow the clock, is for the moment still subject to time's cruel onslaught. I reach into my pocket and breathe a sigh of relief as I feel the contour of my mobile phone. A multi-tasking appendage, part communications device, part prosthetic brain. If you can get 3g reception, 4g at present being a pipe dream for most. As I walk, globules of sweat pour down my back, adhering my fashionable yet impractical trousers to my flanks. As I appraise all that is the case, I am struck by the image of a precocious child, sat next to her Edwardian born Grandmother watching the TV. The year 1989, the programme Tomorrow's World. Tomorrow's Fucking World !!! Along with almost every late 19th-early 20th century sci-fi novel I ever read, served to further warp my already ill-balanced mind. I've always been a living anachronism, born in 1984, raised with Victorian/Edwardian values and conditioned to anticipate a brave new world. There is only one course of action left open to me: STEAMPUNK SUPER VILLAIN!!! It's the only logical solution, Floating through the sky in my aptly named airship: The Earl Of Beaconsfield, the interior furnished like a 19th century ship's cabin. Complete with wooden wheel and brass keys. I would be attired in tight, black, moleskin trousers, a white, Byronic shirt, blue velvet frock coat and steel-plated fetish boots. My half-shaved head and prescription flight goggles completing the ensemble. I would wreak havoc upon the shrink-wrapped, shrink-medicated, plastic worshipping hordes, forcing them to make more things out of cast iron and glass. Making it imperative to learn basic etiquette, rudimentary grammar and revere great historical figures along with their achievements. That way we could construct a future geared towards.....More people like me. A whole generation out of time. OUT OF TIME??? See you at the Omega point bitches.....!!!

Medieval Relish

This is an unusual beginning to an unusual post. I would like to begin by laying my cards upon the table. I don't like Ricky Gervais. I believe him to be mediocrity with an inflated sense of his own importance. That said I feel compelled to defend him. I didn't watch the Golden Globes in their entirety. I find the spectacle of over-privileged arseholes paying homage to one another frankly, nauseating. I did, however, read a synopsis of Mr. Gervais' most risque comments. I also watched selected footage on YouTube. I cannot help but feel Mr.Gervais { I shall stick with it for now, as I despise over familiarity} has been scapegoated by the puritanical American media in revenge for committing the ultimate blasphemy: mocking the Hollywood gods.
That's right Ladies and Gentlemen, T.V. is Mount Olympus and the people on there are aspirational deities to whom obeisance must be paid. Though these heroes generally have two faces, as opposed to a thousand. He poked fun at certain Scientologists, by way of his reference to the film 'I Love Phillip Morris': " Two heterosexual actors pretending to be gay. Sort of the complete opposite of some famous Scientologists then. My lawyers helped me with the wording of that joke". He then went on to mock 'The Tourist' a film which is by all accounts, such a pile of shit, cinema goers ought to be provided with a complementary can of Raid to kill the flies coming off the screen. The cast of Sex And The City, Charlie Sheen and Bruce Willis. I am not going to rehash what has previously been printed in the national press, if you haven't read or seen his remarks I suggest you familiarise yourself with them or else the rest of this article won't make a great deal of sense. A number of people have objected to these jokes on the grounds that they offend public decency. By and large, they don't. They offend rich ego-maniacs with too much time on their hands. The organisers employed Mr. Gervais the previous year and were happy with his performance. They knew what they were getting.
If the organisers don't want to employ someone with the capacity for original thought, I suggest they employ one of there own factory-farmed marionettes. DON'T EMPLOY BRITISH COMEDIANS! In Blighty we have a long standing tradition of satire dating right back to Henry VIII's untouchable jester Will Somers. Continuing through the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries with the foundation of publications such as Punch, a tradition which has endured to the present day. What the A-listers wanted was a professional arse-kisser. What they got was someone who sent them up. Given that Hollywood is populated by alcoholic, drug-addled, naval gazing, prima donnas half of whom are so far in the closet they're finding leg-warmers, it wasn't the wisest course of action. Considering the amount of money these people earn, you'd think they could afford a better sense of humour.
The fact that we're living in a precarious economic climate and these people are immune, boasting comparatively huge bank balances, doing jobs they enjoy, they should expect to be the butt of the odd joke. Alas, Mr. Gervais called down the wrath of the gods, and they sent their emissaries, the lawyers to smite him. I, for one have grown weary of the whining, deluded, cosseted ego-monsters. I think, in the spirit of the middle ages we should have a modern equivalent of the stocks. That these people should be rounded up locked in a big room surrounded by armed guards and mocked for at least four hours by the world's most offensive comedians. Like heretics about to be burned. The rest of the world could watch the proceedings via video link and applaud, as Chubby Brown, Frankie Boyle, Chris Rock and Ricky Gervais et al took the piss out of them with medieval relish. All for the entertainment of the peasants who buy cinema tickets. I may be a hang em' high Tory but there's a streak in me which is pure anarchist.