Brave New World

In a bar in the North Sector called Xcdfertyiioprdfet, which is normally quite exclusive. I guess it's because it's so cold outside, great swathes of solid ice blocking up the sector channels, that made them take pity on me and let me in. There are two pterodactyls at the bar and both have just ordered neat Malibu. I thought that was quite odd. Who drinks neat Malibu? 

The SB Service Biotric behind the bar merely absorbed the request and seconds later both drinks appear holistically on the bar top. I pull up a mushroom and sit down. A Tyrannosaurus Rex is getting a tad loud in a corner, banging on about the referendum that will see a vote on whether to ban all Dinosaurs over seven feet tall from the Yourolandis Union of Countries. He's wearing a silver t-shirt that has the message, 'No To Rexit. Not in My LifeTime,' emblazoned across it in black, six foot lettering. I ignore him and ask the SB for a pale ale. It hesitates, lights on its chest flashing several times. This is followed by a plume of smoke. One of the pterodactyls pulls out a cigarette and holds the end against the SB's head. The cigarette instantly lights and the pterodactyl sticks it in a cigarette holder and takes several drags. I just fancy a pale ale. 

This Yourolandis dream sucks. Automation is fine until you want something they can't deal with. Maybe Yourolandis isn't all it's cracked up to be. My Stellerpak is out of charge. Nothing charges up properly anymore. Not sure how I'll get home. The sub-zero temperatures that have been steadily dropping for months are not helping. Impassable sector channels blocked, in many cases by sheer cliffs of ice. Even the nationalised transport conglomerate, Oooba Ooober & Ooobah is losing customers. And more and more dinosaurs are moving to the city. 

The SB seems to have gone to sleep. I press a light button on the bar surface and a gin and toxic appears, complete with mint and a straw, but no ice. I smile at the irony but one of the pterodactyls mistakes it as a friendly sign. I feel uncomfortable. I neck the gin and toxic and collapse the mushroom. I walk to the dimension lift. Time for a brave new world.

1962 Moon Project in Brexit Terms.

Venue: Oval Office, Washington DC

“You wanna do what? Go to the moon? You told the public and a TV audience that we’re going to the moon!”

“Yup, I did. That’s exactly what I said.”

“You must be outta your mind.” Laughs. “So, how we gonna do that then?”

“I don’t know, yet.”

Disdainful look. “You don’t know?”

“That’s right... yet. All I know is it can be done. You have to have ambition and a positive outlook.”

“Optimism and hope, then? You don’t even know what your programme looks like, yet you insist it can be done.” Raised eyebrow.

“Yup, but optimism and hope breeds action and determination and that way things get done.”

“Okay, so how you gonna finance it? No sponsors are gonna go for such a crazy shit idea. Businesses will be scared they’ll lose money if they back such a hare-brained scheme. They like what they know. They ain’t gonna back you. They won’t make deals with you.”

“Then we’ll finance it ourselves... without their goddam deals.”

Laughs and more eyebrow raising. “That’s crazy. No deals? It’ll cost billions! You risk our economic stability, loss of jobs... freakin' Armageddon!”

“What you’re not seeing is the big picture. You’re like the rest. You can’t see past tomorrow. You worry too much about yourself and the here and now. You have no vision. Think about the future benefits of discovery, new ideas, new inventions, new technology, new partners. Once people see these benefits. I predict that in fifty years time we’ll have technology as a result of this moon project that sc-fi writers couldn’t even make up.”

Frowns. “You think? Anyway, even if it was possible, it’s too dangerous. Lives could be lost, what if the whole thing crashes out... literally?”

“Crashes out? What’s the matter with you? All your negative crap. You don’t wanna do this? You don’t wanna discover new worlds?”

“Listen, there’s nothing wrong with what we got. We’ve had it a long time. Why go risking everything?”

“Okay, so you wanna remain where you are, yeah? That right?”

“It’s safe, it’s what we know. Why change things? Why get involved in something that hard?”

Smiles. “I’ll tell you why. Because remaining where you are means you stay in one place; people get used to just being there, they get complacent and then they get taken advantage of. Before they know it, things get changed so even though they got used to what they have, one day it’s changed, subtly, but changed none the less and you, the sucka, haven’t even noticed that it wasn’t what you started out with. So you either get ahead of that and drive your own ambition or forever suck up to somebody else. And as for safe, try telling that to Columbus, Magellan, Pasteur, Edison... they weren’t goddam staying in one place just 'cos it's easier. We do things, not because they’re easy, but because they are hard.” Turns away. Then... “One other thing, buddy. I’m sick to the back teeth of politicians like you who spout negative, unambitious drivel about how things are gonna be tough, how disastrous the future will be, how we are heading into a black hole. You know what? That’s the easy option, being a naysayer, telling us how tough things are. The hard option is doing something about it. Now take your lily livered, spineless ass out of my fucking office. We’re going to the moon.”

Weather Chat

I recall last summer on a particularly warm afternoon, my car display showed twenty-eight degrees. It meant nothing to me other than it was a bit hot. I'm old skool. Still buy beer by the pint, milk by the pint and drive at 'miles per hour'. But, anyway, twenty-eight degrees and I'd heard people whinging about it being 'toooo hot.' Really? It's the British mind-set when it comes to the weather. If the next day the temperature drops to half that and the clouds hover (maybe some cumulonimbus) the very same people bemoan the British summer, banging on about how cold it is and that 'yesterday was our summer.' God help us if they have a 'bbq' planned.

Footnote: I often wonder what camels have to talk about since, most desert dwelling camels experience the same weather day after day after day. Presumably, eons ago, they had that conversation that went, "nice out, ain't it," but that quickly became the norm and so, with nothing to talk about, conversation didn't evolve. However, monkeys were a whole different thing. Living in rain forests they had ample opportunity to develop 'chat'...

"Pissing down again."

"Yeah, but it'll ease off. Oi... that's my banana!"

"Awright... keep yer hair on.... hang on, sun's out."

"Ain't gonna last though. It'll piss down again."

"Might not."

"Yeah it will. We live in a rain forest. Clue's in the flippin' name, ain't it?"

"That don't mean that it's definitely gonna rain, does it?"

"Yeah it does. It always rains in a rain forest otherwise they'd have called it a... a sun forest."

"Okay, but we get the sun too, don't we, so I'm just sayin'." 

"I know that, but it's mostly rain but if we didn't get no sun then them friggin' bananas wouldn't grow."

'What'cha mean? Nah, they're just there, ain't they? Nothin' to do wiv the weather."

'You got nuts for brains? Don't work like that. And stop scratching yer - "

"Wassup?"

"Hang on. Don't look now but... I said don't look, nob. There's one of them camel things over there."

"Camels?"

"Yeah... weird gits with dodgy backs wot got nothing to say."

So... if it wasn't for the weather perhaps monkeys would never have evolved to the extent that we now have the wonders of txtspk.

Fishing

We all have our preferred pastimes but, unless you're a trawlerman, isn't fishing just weird?

Man dangles rod with maggot on the end of a line in water for several days, pitting his wits against... a fish. Eventually after man has been in the freezing cold and icy rain to the point of near hypothermia, fish with the IQ of a... well, a fish I s'pose, grabs the maggot bait (which by now is probably stiffer than a Scotsman's caber) and is undone. 

Man then hoists fish out of water and gets a selfie with fish to demonstrate his superior prowess at duping fish. Then man chucks fish back into water... and does same thing again, namely dangles line in water. Fish lands back in water with cut lip thinking, "Shit, that was spicy. I ain't eatin' one of dem fings again." 

Five minutes later fish forgets his weird experience (he has the memory of a fish, after all) and goes after another of the dangling delicacies on the end of a line. Man, whose fingers are now as stiff as that Scotsman's caber since it is 3 a.m. in the morning and pitch black, feels the tug on his line and reels in exactly the same fish.

Thing is, he doesn't know it's the same fish because a lot of fish look similar (even the fish doesn't know he's the same fish) especially in the dark. Anyway, the two of them pose for another selfie, this time with fish doing a trout pout (even though he's a carp) and then man throws fish back in the water again. 

Of course, there may well be some extremely narcissistic fish that love to have their moment in the limelight and don't mind a few minutes deprived of oxygen for the sake of a moment's celebrity - the Rainbow Fish may well be such a creature. 

And what anglers do with their fish pix? Do they keep a collection on their ‘phones? Do they know each individual fish by sight from the photos? Also, if they do catch the same fish again is there some form of reunion?

   "Hey, buddy. How you doin'? Sorry about that. I didn't mean to yank you outta there so, uh... enthusiastically. Hey, didn't we meet about an hour ago? Yeah, yeah... I recognise you. Wanna another pic?"

Very odd hobby. I guess the only thing that would make this more interesting would be if, just occasionally, the fish threw the angler into the water... but they ain't that bright.

Psychic Cycles

I had a dream last night that I was one of those psychics, you know the type... the ones that take money off the gullible and then tell them stuff that they want to hear, about stuff they already know!

Anyway, in this dream, given that I’d discovered I might be psychic, I decided to have my own show. I even advertised its time and place in the local paper thus demonstrating my new found powers of prediction and being able to see into the future.

I took the stage on my first night as ‘Mystic Paddy’ and I have to say I was nervous - but I knew I would be. The crowd numbered well over 150, which means... there were nearer 200. I started my routine by dimming the light... well, I didn’t, the stage electrician did but the crowd loved it as I raised my hand in a signal to him and somehow they thought I had done something spooky already. They were up for spooky! Immediately I knew I was on a winner.

I then said, “I’m getting a letter... the letter ‘F’. Yes... the letter ‘F’ and there’s a dog... yes, a dog running down a path and there’s... “A simple everyday occurrence. Somebody had to bite. They did. 

Immediately a voice called out, “I’ve got a dog. Fido... he’s called Fido.”

It crossed my mind that this was too easy. People were willing to tell me stuff and pay me to hear it regurgitated back at them! I decided I had to make the performance more intriguing and suspenseful if it was that easy.

“Fido, you say? No... I’m not getting Fido. Definitely an ‘F’ though, and... wait, yes, an ‘E’ as well.”

Another voice from the audience. “My mother’s dog... Fergie... he died in a plane crash over two years ago. Is it....?”

“A plane crash?” A tad unusual for a dog, I thought.

“Yes... he was chasing sheep in a field in Australia when the flying doctor was trying to land and clipped him with a wheel.”

I took a deep breath and then paused for dramatic effect and said, “No, it’s not Fergie... " I raised my arms in the air and spread my hands wide as if embracing the audience. “Wait... yes, I hear something... "  The audience hushed. “... it’s an Irish accent... I closed my eyes tight and began to speak, as if in ‘tongues'... “Feck... get off that feckin postman yer fecker."

The audience was silent. I glanced to my left. One of the stage hands was making a drink sign with his hand.

“A tea,” I said, before I realised I hadn’t muted the mic.

“My uncle Tommy,” a woman’s voice shouted out. “He had an Irish wolfhound that was always attacking visitors. He passed on ten years ago. He was knocked down and run over by the postman.”

I jumped on the information straight away. “Ah, yes, I see him now. Laying there, his tongue hanging out as his last breath left him. A crowd around him, patting his shaggy grey coat -"

“It was summer,” the woman said. “Tommy never wore a coat in summer and sure I never remember him havin' a grey one anyway. And the bloody stupid dog was lickin' his face trying to get him to wake up.”

“Uh, yes... Tommy... " I had to style it out. “Tommy sends his love to you and your family and is glad the dog is well.”

The woman looked surprised. “Does he? I hated the bastard and I can tell you he was no family man. And I had the bloody stupid dog put down a week after the funeral. Sure if I hadn’t I’d never have seen any post again.”

I swallowed hard. “No, you’re right. It’s the dog that’s... yes, uh... sending his love and hopes you and the family are... you know, keeping well. Sometimes these messages get mixed when people and animals are close.”

I had to move on. “I feel a lot of energy in this room tonight.” I paused again. Then decided to proceed cautiously. “I’m getting a... the name Smith... yes, Smith. Is there anyone here by the name of Smith?” There wasn’t. “Wait... it’s definitely an ‘S’... Sue... Susanne... Sues... anne... ,” I said, which suddenly gave me three name options.

“Anne,” a voice said from near the front.

I wiped my brow and tried to focus. “Yes, Anne. I’m seeing... a mother... a father... they... "

Anne was nodding. She was around seventy-five years old so it was safe to assume her parents were not in the audience. “... they were close,” I said. I guess they had to have been at one time if they had a daughter.

Anne nodded again.

“Uh... a grandmother and grandfather...” I said, pushing it further. They definitely couldn’t be in the audience.

Anne smiled and nodded some more. I had a connection but needed to know what to do with it. “I see a bicycle... ". One of the family surely had to have had one. The connection spanned well over a hundred years which took us past the motor car. “Your parents or grandparents had a bicycle, Anne. I sense it. They are sending you energy and kindness.”

Anne wiped a tear away. “My father... he had a bicycle... for work.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes... I see him now. He loved his bike and used to ride it all -"

“But they took it away... when... when he was jailed,” Anne said.

“Err... jailed?”

“Jailed for running over a customer... he was a postman and... "

Her voice trailed off as she broke down.

I woke with a start. I don’t usually remember dreams that vividly!

(N.B. No dogs were hurt in the making of this dream. Stunt dogs were used. It should be said that no humans were hurt either.)

The Scouts

I was in the scouts when I 'were a lad.' 2nd Wimbledon Scout Group. I have no idea whether there was a 1st Wimbledon scout group or a 3rd Wimbledon scout group. I never saw them but surely there had to be or it would have been pointless calling our lot the 2nd Wimbledon. 

We were allowed to carry knives... in public. Yes, six inch hunting knives, strapped to our waists in a sheath and on full public display. I am not sure why we had these blades as I never stabbed anyone. In fact I never did anything useful at all with it. Occasionally we had to carve a tent peg out of a branch but since I lived in a house in Wimbledon, a single tent peg was completely unnecessary. And the local camping shop, Millets, was in Wimbledon Broadway so if I ever needed a tent peg (when you're 10, you don't) I could have bought one from my paper round money. 

These days I would have been arrested for carrying a knife with intent to carve a tent peg (and probably for wearing stupid baggy shorts, a weird neckerchief and for mumbling bollocks like DYB DYB DYB, DOB DOB DOB.)

So I managed to get through that period of childhood without stabbing anyone, or getting arrested, and completely oblivious as to how I got into the organisation in the first place and what exactly it was for in Wimbledon! With hindsight, I now believe we were a street gang, like the CRIPS and the BLOODS in LA and, with our superior weaponry, we must have eliminated the 1st and 3rd Wimbledon 'gangs' to become the dominant local outfit.

Car Washes

So, I need to discuss car washes. (Discuss as in feel free to comment if you have any views on car washes at all!) Now, when I refer to ‘car washes’, I don’t mean those automated ones where you sit in an enclosed space for five minutes wondering if you have lined your car up correctly and it will come out in one piece. No, I mean the ‘hand wash’ ones where only one person speaks English and everything is conducted in hand signals.

You get beckoned forward and you creep slowly along to a point where suddenly the guy shoots out a hand in a firm STOP signal. You switch off the engine and sit back while people start spraying your vehicle with high powered jets of water; then it gets soaped up using giant sponges. At that point you get beckoned forward again, but after moving just seven inches you suddenly get the abrupt STOP hand-sign again. Nobody in the world knows why you have to move forward only seven inches and then stop again. After more vigorous soaping, water bombardment and random spraying - some weird stuff contained in a giant flask is sprayed all over the vehicle windscreen, bodywork and wheels, and you have no idea what it is because you can’t wind down the window and ask as you might end up with a ‘facefull’ of it and then have to watch in your rear-view mirror as your skin peels off - you get beckoned forward again 

By now you’re really nervous because you don’t know whether you should be going seven inches or driving forward positively. However, the expression on the ‘beckoning bloke’s’ face as you are inching along - a kind of ‘FFS, mate, get a move on, ain’t you ever driven a flippin’ car before’ look - encourages you to be a bit more ambitious until he pulls out the STOP hand again. You stop, switch off the engine while the car gets jetted some more, but just as you are beginning to relax, you get the ‘seven inch’ manoeuvre thrown at you again. You ease forward, stop again but then you don’t know whether to switch off the engine or leave it running. You leave it for a minute and then decide to switch off but just as you do, you get the hand signal to move forward. This time you pass through a giant ‘hairdryer’, not sure at what speed you should be going. Once through there, an army of blokes with chamois leathers descend on your car like war zone rioters and begin flanneling it down. You realise the ordeal is nearly over and begin to chill… until you spot the missed bit - two droplets of water just waiting to trickle down your side mirror. 

You watch the chamois bloke on your right side and you’re thinking, “C’mon, mate. You gotta see that… surely, you must. You can’t miss it.” He continues to chamois vigorously but somehow misses it and you say nothing because after all the water that’s been sprayed over your vehicle, it kind of seems ‘picky’ to complain about two solitary drops, even if they are irritating the hell out of you! Then, for no reason at all, someone comes along and starts painting your tyres black! They don’t even ask what colour you fancy. I guess it’s the old Henry Ford legend, “You can have any colour you want as long as it’s black.” 

And then the final touch. One of the guys knocks on your window; you wind it down and he hands you one of those scented ‘Christmas tree’ things that is supposed to make the inside of your car smell nice, but actually makes it smell like somebody’s conducted a chemical experiment in your vehicle that went wrong, and if you did hang it from your rear-view mirror it would knock ten percent off the value of your car the minute you drove away from the car wash! 

In fairness though, these guys do a good job. Not their fault I have no clue what’s going on!!