If you ever dared to utter anything remotely along the lines of cure for cancer you had better watch out because a lot of people are bound to get inordinately excited. It’s the dream of various learned members of the scientific community to be the one who finally manages to kick cancer’s metaphorical arse. However, something that people seem unwilling to consider is the cost of such a discovery (if I ever complete that novel I keep failing to finish you might just see a revolutionarily insightful discussion of this very issue).
So when it appeared that a method of eliminating a specific type of cancer had come to fruition everyone started celebrating rather than contemplating for so much as a single second that this breakthrough might have had ramifications. In order to battle rampaging cells medics are already prepared to blast them with radiation or soak them with poison so it’s hardly surprising that an aggressive cure was very heartily welcomed.
I mean, what does it matter if you’re left as nothing more than a dried out husk provided you’re gloriously free of metastasis? The government has been holding out hope for some time now that anything good will happen at some point. This is the main reason why they plunged so readily onwards with the fabled cure.
Now is not the time for me to go into the finer points of the science involved (and not at all because I can’t think of anything entertaining to try and pass off as almost fact). However, suffice to say that even if the flesh is literally melting off your face because it’s so riddled with tumours you’ll still think twice or even three times about allowing the doctors to cure you. When being cleansed is the ultimate goal it can be easy to lose perspective.
In this heartily gin soaked country of ours it might be considered something of a miracle that we’ve managed to produce an anti-drinking lobby at all. Obviously I’m not suggesting that we’re a nation of drunkards per se, there are those who’ve sworn off the sauce thanks to some very interesting stories they refuse to go into in sufficient detail (not that anyone would ever dream of nosing into such exploits).
But every now and then someone out there will get a little bit bored. The usual causes don’t hold the same level of savour as they used to. Rather than giving into that overwhelming sense of ennui they cast about for some other worthy thing to latch onto. One such enterprising type decided that just the thing would be to eradicate alcohol consumption as a brand of entertainment. To hell with anyone else’s enjoyment or whatever, just think of the social kudos that would accompany such a feat.
And so an officious band of misfits joined together in order to bring down big booze or whatever they might have decided to dub it. But how on earth do miracles manage to enter into the business? Have they been pulling a reverse Jesus and turned wine into water and begun selling it as an expensive health drink? Of course not but do put a pin in that as a future business venture.
No, maybe miracle isn’t quite the right term for it but you know how the papers like to indulge in the odd spot of hyperbole. They’re simply managing to attract new followers to their cause which is something of a surprise. Maybe it’s simply down to the fact that we’re a far more health conscious nation than we used to be and giving up drink is a far more agreeable alternative than eating more sensibly. Wonders will never cease.
It’s the very first thing people consider when contemplating a politician they’ve decided they don’t much like. What would be the very best way to remove them from power and dispose of the corpse? Should you hire an assassin and leave the door open to rampant conspiracy theories? The rather more honourable way forward of course is to commit the deed yourself but how to make sure it doesn’t lead back to you?
Naturally, it’s desirable to make sure that there isn’t a body for anyone to discover. The immense pressure of running a country is bound to get to anyone. Every now and then a world leader will feel an overwhelming impulse to run away. The more recognisable ones will no doubt wish to indulge in a bout of plastic surgery before skipping away to spend the rest of their days lounging on a beach without so much as a care or worry to encroach on their sun drenched horizon.
But nowadays it’s so difficult to get hold of sufficient corpse dissolving acid (not that I know from experience or anything). The only thing left to do is to eat the politician once you’ve bumped them off the mortal coil. The sauce you serve them with is of course up to you but do make sure that your dinner party guests are relatively trustworthy.
The only problem with this particular plan is that we’ve had to become a highly health conscious nation. A man such as Cameron has been fed up over his years to the nutritional value of an especially sumptuous foie gras. You may have rid yourself of a prime minister you didn’t much like but you won’t have done yourself any favours in terms of your risk of heart failure let alone your climbing levels of cholesterol.
Nobody is saying for so much as one minute that you can’t have fun. That simply wouldn’t be fair. Come on, what’s the point in living if all you’ll be doing is existing? Work until you drop and then some more so you can claim to have done the right thing. No, not at all. How depressing and shockingly inappropriate. All that needs to occur for you to legitimately get your ya yas if for you to put in the work necessary to earn them.
Should you in the several decades of honest earnest service and play the moral upstanding citizen then once your 75th birthday rolls around the party can well and truly begin. A veritable smorgasboard of mind bending substances will turn up at your front door courtesy of our fair minded and surprisingly liberal government. If all goes well with this particular scheme then there will be an excellent argument for adding banned substances to the hallucinogenic bundle.
Once you’ve gained the perspective of a full life’s worth of experience you can start pushing all manner of boundaries when it comes to your mental consciousness. After all, what have those young whippersnappers ever done to deserve romping bounds through psychedelic landscapes and whatnot (I do realise it was incredibly clear even before now that I’ve never been privy to such experiences. I’ve got at least another five decades to wait before I’m eligible)?
And if nursing homes and the like were suddenly able to boast access to psychotropic substances withheld to the general population don’t you think more senior citizens would be more enthusiastic about entering such establishments? Imagine the waiting lists, people ready to lie about their age in order to gain access. Just let get of the hassles of everyday independent life and be off your tits as much as you could possibly want.
With just a little application and ingenuity you’d be amazed precisely what the human body can achieve. Actually, you probably wouldn’t, just look at Batman. Sure, he’s technically not based on a real person but it probably wouldn’t take all that much searching to uncover his actual factual equivalent. Or at the very least an Iron Man wannabe (Marvel fever has somewhat taken hold after the latest lacklustre DC outing).
In your heart of hearts you know it to be true. There are enough money and time rich nerds out there for rather a lot of them to be toying about with attempting to invent all manner of exciting modifications for the human base kit. It’s true that those gunning for laser vision are barking up the wrong tree but we can’t all be winners. Sometimes they team up in order to put their overactive imaginations together and bring dreams into terrifying reality.
If only a certain firm could remember the precise chain of thought that led to one of their number managing to get airborne at last. The sad thing is that if they can recall the glorious process they definitely won’t want to share it with the rest of humanity. Sure, there could be some profit in the patent but that wouldn’t last forever. Where’s the pure satisfaction in being able to leap into the air with a single flap of your arms if everyone else can do it too?
So they melt away into the night and take their furtive developments in evolution with them. We’ll never find out and even if someone else is even capable of recreating the amazing event they won’t be minded to let anyone else into the flight club. They’ll start spinning some useless rules regarding not talking about it and the frustrating cycle will continue. Give me an unlimited budget and a massive lever and I’ll almost definitely accomplish something.
Now the problem with the NHS is all the bloody sick people (if you read that in Jeremy Hardy’s voice then it becomes several times more hilarious and insightful. Probably. At least you’ll get something of an appreciation for the sarcasm that I originally intended to drip from my opening statement). Rather than pump more useless money into it or endeavouring to give the workers within it decent pay or working conditions there’s a far easier solution at hand.
It would be something of a public outrage to exterminate said illingtons in any kind of permanent way. Such things have been tried before and it’s safe to say that it’s really quite frowned upon. You know how the white hat brigade are ever so slightly opposed to mass murder. Tedious, I’ll grant but nevertheless. No, a more tender approach has to be taken so that everyone can feel something in the same league as reassurance.
Gold brick flats had a nice enough ring to it and no one else had a more cost effective solution. Those afflicted with various maladies real or otherwise were lured to a particular location with the promise of pills or potions designed to cure them of whatever was the matter. Once safely trapped inside the prisoners, sorry, guests would no longer be a burden on an overstretched national health service.
Kidnapping, while altogether more savoury than outright killing, is still considered something of a crime. This is where the gold brick nature of the flat. Coop folk up in sufficiently luxuriant surroundings and Stockholm syndrome will set in that little bit quicker. Before long the inmates will wonder how they ever existed on the outside and start refusing to leave. They’ll even start doing the recruitment to take more lepers and similar off the hands of the poor overworked healthcare providers.
It’s classic tale as old as time. Child is born into a perfectly average family. Said individual begins to develop worrying behavioural symptoms. I start to get uncomfortable in continuing with this story because I definitely don’t know what I’m talking about. A few chapters in the tale get skipped over because of some plot and we arrive at the almost present. The nut job haunting the train station has a far more layered and nuanced history than you might have initially expected. But try not to touch because icky.
But that’s definitely not where this engaging saga ends because we both know that once things get to a certain point they can only get better. That’s what they insist on telling you when you’re down in the dumps and it’s what I’m going to cling to for the time being. Someone actually stopped to listen to what this particular individual had to say.
Sure, they’d only lost their train ticket and thanks to an unhelpful guard they were trapped unless they stumped up the extra funds to cross the barrier. But for that crucial minute or so they were exposed to the ramblings of our slightly maniacal hero. And a surprising amount of sense was made. Were they to release a newsletter they might just have a brand new subscriber.
This commuter happened to be rather an influential figure within the media. Ideas caught fire, took hold and grew into something rather more wonderful than might have initially been suspected. The so called maniac was collected, thoroughly deloused and put on a pedestal to start debated matters related to the economy, climate change, equal rights, life the universe and everything. It’s a completely new brand of politics that’s delightfully refreshing and unexpected and not in the incredibly scary Donald Trump way.