‘Jesus!’
‘Quite. And the next loser... is “art”, as in, you know, the sort of stuff artists produce. You see, by 2050, there are only two forms of this sort of art left. The first is “official art”, which is predominantly public sculpture and predominantly made up of lots of concrete and lots of representations of gritty-looking Chinese soldiers, often holding concrete flags. And the second is “Turner art”, which is unofficial and which, of course, takes its name from the Turner Prize competition of the past. This, incidentally, disappeared when the winning entry in 2023 entailed the burning down of the Tate Gallery and the dissolution of the entire competition. But anyway, because nobody now has a clue as to how to paint or how to sculpt anything other than awful chinese soldiers, it’s just left to the conceptual mob to keep the banner of British “free art” flying, and they are, I suppose, trying their best. Unfortunately, however, this best is pretty damn rank. I mean, recent “creations” have included encircling Ecclefechan in Dumfries and Galloway with a ring of Eccles Cakes spaced 500 yards apart – as an “exploration of the inner psyche through the medium of spatial placing of confectionery around a sympathetic core”. Then there was a chap who spent a year trying to push Snowdonia further north – and a guy who cut Damien Hirst in half and put one half in a fish tank and the other half on eBay. And believe it or not, there was even an “unmade bed”. Yes, some woman had thought that as a “work of art” she’d just exhibit a horribly untidy bed full of all sorts of horrible things. I mean, you couldn’t make it up, could you?’
‘No, Brian, you couldn’t. But you have. Or am I just getting confused?’
Brian smiled.
‘Well, maybe we both are,’ he responded. ‘So let’s move on to the next loser, which is “sport”, but not sport as we know it now. I mean, it’s no longer a participation event – where anybody might play it. No, now it’s merely another form of entertainment – watched on a screen somewhere – and “played” by a new bunch of entertainers, entertainers who have simply chosen as their “act”, disciplines such as running and jumping...’
‘Don’t you have to be good at running and jumping to make it as a professional sportsman?’
‘Not if you’re on the requisite diet of drugs and you’ve been kitted out with the appropriate performance-enhancing prosthetics...’
‘What? You mean...’
‘Yes. Not-drug-taking is now banned, as first, being disrespectful to all the other drugged-up athletes, and second, it screws up the betting odds. And then no one in 2050 would ever contemplate competing without a bit of carbon-fibre about his or her person. Anything from an arm extension for the discus throwers to a spring loaded carbon-fibre coil used in the sprint events. In fact, in 2049, the one hundred metre record was smashed by a guy called “The Nutter”, who recorded a time of just 0.93 seconds – and was awarded a special gold medal (posthumously) just as soon as they’d dug him out of the track – three yards beyond the finishing line.’
‘Brian, in my capacity as the sounding-board, I have to say that you are now getting just a little bit silly. And furthermore, you have not explained why “sport” seems to be equated with just athletics. What about all the other sports? And what about football?’
‘A valid query. To which I would respond as follows. You see, most other sports didn’t lend themselves to drug and prosthetics manipulation in quite the same way that athletics did. Or they simply weren’t popular enough – and they died on their feet. And as for football... well, when the Premier League bubble burst in 2020, the financial collateral damage was so extensive that it wiped out virtually all other forms of football as well. And then, when all the international stars had buggered off, it was soon realised that we hadn’t only lost the skills needed to make ships and TVs and things, but we’d also lost the skills needed to play football. There were no even half-competent national players. And that was the real death knell. And it’s been dead ever since, and it can’t be revived...’
‘So just athletics and nothing else?’
‘Well, there is still orienteering. That’s really still quite popular, and is the province of normal people rather than just professionals.’
‘Why orienteering?’
‘Easy. Because the Chinese find it difficult to pronounce.’
‘God, I walked into that one, didn’t I?’
‘I speak only the truth.’
‘Except when you don’t.’
‘Correct.’
‘OK,’ sighed Sandra. ‘And are there other than losers?’
‘There are. There are winners – of sorts. And I’ll start with the biggest winner of all: TV. Where, of course, TV is not just conventional TV, but the sort of stuff that is now watched on all sorts of devices, handheld and otherwise. And it’s big business – and the favourite “culture” in Britain.’
‘Anything like it is now?’
‘Yes and no. You see, there was a fundamental change in the TV world when Simon Cowell bought out the BBC. And that change was basically a change from varied programming to almost wall to wall Britain’s Got Talent and The X Factor. And by 2050, these two programmes – and their derivatives – are on all the time.’
‘Christ!’
‘If we start with Britain’s Got Talent... well, you might still recognise it. You know, no-hopers of every imaginable variety – but now with more cruelty than ever. So, for example, a recent winner was a guy who’d had all his ribs taken out and made into a xylophone – and he then played his “bonophone” whilst wearing an external metal cage to stop his body caving in. He was pretty good really. And Dem Bones, Dem Bones got him through to the final, where he then gave an incredible bonophone rendition of Bridge over Troubled Water.’
‘For God’s sake, Brian...’
‘Of course, the principal diet of the programme is abject failure. And there have been some super ones in the last season. One really good one was an illusionist who did the guillotine trick on himself, which went absolutely splendidly – right up to when he took a bow at the end of his act and his head fell off... And then there was the singing plastic robot who was failed on the grounds that he had more charisma than Simon Cowell himself – and less plastic... And I should explain that one. Because, by 2050, Mr Cowell is embalmed from the neck down and his face is now entirely plastic – for real – as is his dyed Astro-Turf toupée.
‘Anyway, acts like these are all given the genuine “you’ve got no talent whatsoever” treatment, which involves waves of derision and a bit of a beating up – and then they’re all sent to work for Revenue and Customs. Meanwhile, some equally talentless people will have signed up for a rather more extreme version of the show known as Britain’s Got Talons, where the contestants are herded together in a cage full of ravenous raptors – who then proceed to tear them to death with their razor-tipped talons, until finally a winner emerges – as in the last guy still breathing. And he or she then gets an intensive course of reconstructive surgery before being sent on a holiday of a lifetime – at Beijing’s famous and entirely synthetic “Pawadice Iwand”, which, although completely horrible, still beats picking and packing spuds for a lifetime.’
‘Brian, have you noticed that you’re being overly rude to the Chinese? It’s really not very nice to ridicule their pronunciation all the time. In fact, it might even be racist.’
‘Shit! They’ve taken over Europe by 2050. We’re one of their vassal states. If I can’t poke fun at them now, when can I?’
‘Well, I was just pointing it out – as is my job apparently. And before you move on to your next revelation about mid-century TV. Because I feel sure that there is one...’
‘There is indeed. Because I haven’t yet told you what happens to The X Factor.’
‘What does happen to The X Factor, Brian?’
‘Ah, well, not content with plastering it across the TV schedules every night, our nice Mr Cowell cuts a deal with that guy who now owns Channel 5. And I mean now as in the present. And, as this
gentleman is not unknown for taking an interest in the profit potential of pornography, he opens a brand new pay-as-you-view channel, where most of the programming, at least initially, revolves around a new variation of the format, known as The XXX Factor – with the sort of content I need hardly describe. And then, by 2050, this channel carries a more varied diet – virtually all of which is a selection of programmes from the past – brought up to date and given an overtly sexual slant. And in case you’re finding it difficult to imagine what these might be, I’ll give you a few examples...’
‘I thought you might.’
‘Yes, well one of the most popular programmes of all is The Germination Game. Then there’s the ever-popular Nudesnight, the even more popular The Weakest Gimp, and, of course, we mustn’t forget one of the country’s favourite day-time programmes: Feel or No Feel, or, indeed, the award-winning fusion offering of Have I Got Grand Designs on You...’
‘Yes, Brian. I think I get the general idea. But you haven’t mentioned soaps yet. And I can’t believe that there aren’t any soaps...’
‘Oh there are – on special soaps channels. But they’re all rubbish. Eastenders is now set in Mumbai – with Albert Square now Tata Square. Coronation Street is now Qatar Nation Street – with lots of hijabs in evidence and the Rovers Return replaced by an oil well. And as for Emmerdale... well, that’s become: China and the Triumph of Communism over the Vacuous Economics of the Decadent West – and, frankly, it’s lost a lot of its original audience...’
‘Brian, is there much more of this?’
‘Not much more. But I have to talk about films.’
‘Do you?’
‘Yes. They’re a bigger part of British culture than ever.’
‘Right...’
‘So, for example, Johnny Depp has just made Pirates of the Caribbean 39 – which is essentially a re-mix of all his previous Pirate films – in the same way that his previous Pirate films are, but spiced up with a Sweeney Todd character, equipped with Edward Scissorhand’s scissor hands – which turn out to be a bit of a problem with the rigging. And James Bond is still around – with a remake of Goldfinger, in which Goldfinger himself is played by Ron Weasley (in his first acting role in forty years – or ever), Odd Job by a restyled Gok Wan (very badly) – and Bond by Prince Harry. You see, he turned to acting to get over the shock of his father pre-deceasing his grandmother – who is still alive but confined to a wheelchair – which Prince Edward pushes around Sandringham on his good days and gets Sophie to push around on his bad...’
‘Brian, I’m losing the will to live...’
‘Hang on. Nearly there. Because one of the main themes of film-making in the middle of the century is the remaking of classics – remade to reflect the current times. So you get films like:
No Great Expectations
It’s not a Wonderful Life
Apocalypse Now – and Forever
A Room without a View
I’m not Alright, Jack
Rebel without a Car
The Wrongly Accused Thief of Baghdad
E.T. The Extra Turnip (at Christmas), and
Dr Strangewuv. How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Chinese’
‘You’re poking fun again, Brian. And if you don’t stop it soon, I’ll poke something else.’
‘Music. That’s the last thing. And I can’t ignore music...’
‘Oh God... well, OK. But make it quick. Very quick.’
‘I will. I will. So right then. Well, you see, they’ve taxed it – at variable rates. And what this means is that only the Chinese and the very rich can listen to the higher rate stuff – which is essentially any of the classics and any music from the Sixties and Seventies – plus a few bands like Queen and Madness. And everybody else has to make do with the lower rate stuff: Eighties music right up to the current rubbish. And this really does get worse and worse, as the Cowell factor casts its inpenetrable shadow over anything even half decent. So all that’s left in the end is feeble warbling, robotic and repetitive “trash music” – and the “Karaoke Genre”, which is basically anybody with no talent whatsoever, fooling themselves into thinking that they have a talent to sing. It’s awful. Oh, and I should just say that the near-destitute have to make do with the zero-rated stuff – which is the output of people like Toyah Wilcox and Morrissey. One can only imagine how they suffer...’
‘So it’s all recorded music?’
‘99% of it is. But there is just a little bit of live stuff. Principally “authorised music” – which is banged out by “Happy Bands”. And these guys are authorised by the Chinese and they’re mostly Born-again Christians and old Lib Dems, and they sing lots of songs with words in them like “happy”, “clappy”, “lucky”, “plucky”, “jolly” and “smiley”. They’re enough to set your teeth on edge.’
‘And that’s it?’
‘Yes. Other than a small underground movement that, at great personal risk, knocks out a series of protest songs. So there are numbers like:
The Air that I Breathe – is now Taxed
Hit Them with Your Rhythm Stick
Let’s Resist Again – Like we did Last Summer
I don’t like Mondays – or any Bloody Day of the Week
I Want to Break Free – from the Chinese
You can’t get it even if you want it and
Stayin’ Alive – On Three Turnips a Week
Oh, and of course, the Stones and Status Quo are still going strong – although the Stones aren’t aware that they are. And Cliff Richard is still knocking it out – still trying to get his first Christmas Number One. And Elvis Presley has been rediscovered. They matched his DNA with some old DNA found on a Sixties hamburger – and off he went again – with a number of new classics including There Goes My Everything – for probably the very last time and It’s Now or Never – and I really do mean now.’
‘Brian, you need treatment. But you have finished, haven’t you?’
‘I have. I have no more to tell you.’
‘Well, in that case, as your official sounding-board, I am obliged to tell you that I think you’ve been working just a little too hard on this book and, apart from anything else, you’ve painted a picture of British culture in the middle of this century that is far too awful. I mean, I can’t believe any culture anywhere could really get as tragic as this.’
‘Well, I’m not saying we’ve started to marry off girls at ten – or started to stone people to death. So we haven’t reached absolute rock bottom. Or got anywhere near it, for that matter.’
‘That’s not the sort of culture I was talking about – or that you’ve been talking about. And well you know it...’
‘Well, OK. But even in respect of the culture I have been talking about, there are, remember, a lot of people we have to suffer now who are no longer around by 2050. So that’s a pretty positive point. I mean, by that year, believe it or not, even Anne Robinson has retired.’
‘Which is exactly what we should be doing. There is Gatwick tomorrow, you know.’
And so the evening was finally drawn to a close, and Brian would have to reconcile himself to the fact that his sounding-board, as useful and as long-suffering as it had been, was now no longer available, at least in Morocco. But before he dropped off to sleep, he couldn’t prevent himself from thinking what it would be like in 2050 – for him and Sandra – if they had the misfortune still to be alive then. If, in their early hundreds, they had to cope with all this degraded culture – and all the other aspects of mid-century Britain that he had dreamt up over the last seven days. And he could only conclude that if they were both still around then, he would have to shut it all out. He would have to build a house with just a few very tiny windows in its walls – with shutters on all of them – and probably hide this house behind a high compound wall, a compound wall without any gaps in it...
9.
When Brian woke up, he remembered a dream. It wasn’t a nightmare as such, but more a nightmare vision. Because what he ha
d dreamt was that, to fill that government void in his dystopian Britain of the future, a band of present-day characters had time-travelled to 2050 and established themselves there as government ministers. And this is where the real nightmare aspect had come into play, not just in respect of who they were but also in the positions they had assumed. So, as far as he could recall, Geoffrey Archer had become the Attorney General, Russell Brand, the Minister of Health, Ken Livingstone, the Business Secretary, Piers Morgan, the Home Secretary, Ed Balls, the Chancellor(!) – and Shami Chakrabarti, the Minister of Fun. And he wasn’t quite sure, but he thought it might have been Rupert Murdoch as Prime Minister. Although, if it was him, he had somebody else’s red crinkly hair...
Well, anyway, this is what happens when you spend your days dreaming as well, dreaming up a lot of nonsense about things that are never going to happen, things that can only ever live in the rather warped mind of their rather warped author. But there again, all Brian’s musings had got him through this holiday. They had distracted him from the weather, from the despoilment of the countryside, from the zealotry of his companions – and even from all those ruddy tajines. So, maybe a disturbing dream was a small price to pay. And furthermore, he could now give it all a rest. Later in the day, he and his wife, together with all their fellow Nature-seekers and their two guides, would be leaving this country. All that remained was a brief excursion to while away this last morning. And very soon this excursion was underway.
It was to what looked like a castle but was referred to as a souk. And this souk was on a very high cliff overlooking Agadir harbour. And to the left of this harbour, and forming a glistening crescent of white, was the whole of the city of Agadir itself. Lit by the morning sun (the weather was clearly picking up now) and edged with a sparkling blue sea, it looked pretty stunning – and it set in train a whole new series of musings for Brian. Because here was a slice of Morocco that, at least from a distance, was rather impressive – when he’d spent the last eight days cataloguing all the aspects of this country that were anything but impressive. And well... maybe he’d been a little bit harsh.
Crystal Balls and Moroccan Walls Page 11