It is still bloody snowing.
It won't go away. For a brief period yesterday, it looked as if the torment would finally end. It looked as if the good old British weather would break, the rain would once again fall and it would wash all the sodding white slippy stuff away.
Oh. Hell. No.
Instead, all that happened was the temperature plunged and the rain turned to snow, which then settled on the newly frozen ground. Fan-fucking-tastic. I was almost looking forward to being able to drive places again. At least all this snow has done wonders for my petrol consumption, which is currently zero for the week. Seeing as how I usually get through half a tank a week, I've technically saved £12,000.
Oh, and this second snap of snow has come just before I need to go places to do visiting Christmas related stuff. Excellent. I was already dreading the motorway drives alongside idiot folk who believe you can still get into the fast lane with a Ford Focus laden with 5 people, 500 presents and two suitcases. Now I have to deal with both those people as well as the sorts who, because of a single solitary flake of snow on the hard shoulder, think that the maximum speed limit on a motorway should be 9mph. Fantastic.
However, despite all of these calamities which have befouled my existence this week, there have been two shining lights.
The first, and if I must admit most douchebagy, was I spent about 3 hours on Facebook yesterday commenting about how awesome it is working from home on everyone who updated their status from their phones stuck in snow bound traffic. It was amazing. Sure, I got a lot of abuse and will no doubt be given a number of savage beatings but it was totally worth it. Although I think that is just people being sore about stuff. I mean, if you have been stuck in a multi story car park for 4 hours trying to get out into a town centre, it is all in good fun if someone comments that they “can't hear you over the sound of being warm and comfortable.”
The second shining light to brighten up my week is a tad more emo. Christmas is finally here.
Last night, I threw some decorations up, wrapped up all the presents I'd bought folk that had been slowly been developing into a decent sized fort in my room and watched The Muppets Christmas Carol three times. Today I've done the grand sum of sweet sod all and tomorrow the visiting of relatives begins.
Christmas is here. Each year I think “oh, it isn't all that festive this year” and grumble a bit then the festive season hits about now and all becomes well in the world. No work, no worries, no nothing except food, friends, family, presents and a hearty old drink-a-thon.
That, my dear followers, is what Christmas is all about.
Merry fucking Christmas and I will see you on the 5th of January. If I've sobered up from NYE by then.
Lots of love,
Ben
Tuesday, 22 December 2009
Sunday, 20 December 2009
Snow!
Credit for this awesome photo goes here
Well this snow is fucking ridiculous. I mean who in the blue balled cauldron of Croydon thought it would be a great idea to make it snow just before Christmas? I mean, on Christmas snowing is more than acceptable. If anything it should be encouraged. After Christmas and around NYE too is fantastic. But in the week building up to Christmas, when people still have to get to work, go shopping, drive half way around the country to see other bits of family and do stuff which generally needs the roads to be clear and trains to run, having Ol' Jack Frost shit his white stuff all over the country is not helpful in the slightest.
I've nearly smashed my car up twice already attempting to get to places I need to be and have nearly fallen flat on my arse a few times after my dipshit neighbours decided to clear their drive ways with water. This is not a lie. I've caught a few of them running their hose down their drive to clear the snow off it. The concept of gritting and salting is foreign to these people. How they can eat their breakfast without losing all their teeth chewing on a rock baffles me.
Anyway, aside from the general disruption to the simple things in life like buying milk that snow brings, it has another down side. It makes you ill. I'm not shitting you, as an adult snow makes you ill. And you want to know why? It's all your parents fault.
When it snowed when you were a kid, your parents wrapped you up warm, sent you out with a coat and gloves and scarf and hat and thermals and spear and everything you may need for a right rip roaring old Arctic adventure. Then, when the playing was done and you got back in, they made sure that you changed out of your wet, cold clothes and put on some nice warm stuff. They may have even made you something nice and warming to eat. Oh, what a glorious time it was. Nowadays, in adult life it seems you just come in out of the cold, go to the pub and get ill. The two times it has snowed this year, I've gotten ill. The first time was back in February when we had the Superbowl party up at the O2. When we all turfed out the whole place was covered in snow, so 1,000 drunk NFL fans had a big old snowball fight. As you do. The next day I felt like shit.
Last night I was out celebrating a friend's birthday. There was already still a pretty solid amount of snow still left frosting the locality, but hey ho that good old douchebag Jack Frost decided to throw some more down. This meant that we had to play in it. It isn't like you have a choice in these things. Put a bunch of beered up early 20-somethings in the snow and we will play. Deal with it. So, we threw snowballs, did some bundles, tackled each other, tried to de-trou people and what not. It was a tremendous lark. And then we all went inside and drank some more, singing songs of the joys of Christmas.
Today, I've woken up with a thick head and a sore throat. I'm ill, and it must be the snow's fault. That fucker got me sick, and not a week before Christmas proper and all. I'm going to punch Jack Frost in the face.
Anyway, you want to know the end result of my experimentations with snow? I'm telling you, no matter how old you are you need your parents around when it snows or else you will die. End of story.
By the way, assuming I survive the night and make it to Tuesday, expect that to be the last post of the year. Christmas for me starts on the 23rd and I aim to sober up again sometime around the 5th of January.
Thursday, 17 December 2009
The Internet and How It Saved Christmas
I love the internet. Not only does it allow me the possibilities to go and troll lots of uppity people, blather on and on about my simply ridiculous points of view and moan about a whole manner of things, it also lets me not have to talk to anyone face to face.
I don't like people. I don't like the general public. I like my friends, sure, and I like my family. When jobs have forced me in the past to interact with people I have obliged, but in general my rule of thumb is people should be avoided at all cost. It's nothing personal, I'm sure you are a great laugh, a nice person and a gentle yet thorough lover. I just don't care.
That isn't to say I'm a total recluse. Of course I go out. Sometimes I'm not entirely happy about the places I get dragged to, but I go. As much as I dislike dealing with the general public, the thing I'd hate more is to sit inside hating on strangers. That would just be odd.
Anyway, I digress. Christmas Shopping. Where as meeting random people for a laugh in a nightclub is one thing, wandering around town with fistfuls of bags of presents is quite another. That is not exactly my idea of fun.
This is where the internet stepped in. For the first time, I did every single last bit of my Christmas shopping (all right, I bought ONE thing in a shop) online. And from only two websites – IWOOT and Amazon. It was brilliant. It was a revaluation. Frankly, it was damned near erotic.
But do you know what the absolute bestest thing in the whole wide world is? It now means that either over the weekend or next week when I go into London to look at all the pretty lights, shop displays down Regent Street and have a mulled wine in Covent Garden, I can do it without the burden of shopping bags. And that, my dear friends, is what it is all about.
I don't like people. I don't like the general public. I like my friends, sure, and I like my family. When jobs have forced me in the past to interact with people I have obliged, but in general my rule of thumb is people should be avoided at all cost. It's nothing personal, I'm sure you are a great laugh, a nice person and a gentle yet thorough lover. I just don't care.
That isn't to say I'm a total recluse. Of course I go out. Sometimes I'm not entirely happy about the places I get dragged to, but I go. As much as I dislike dealing with the general public, the thing I'd hate more is to sit inside hating on strangers. That would just be odd.
Anyway, I digress. Christmas Shopping. Where as meeting random people for a laugh in a nightclub is one thing, wandering around town with fistfuls of bags of presents is quite another. That is not exactly my idea of fun.
This is where the internet stepped in. For the first time, I did every single last bit of my Christmas shopping (all right, I bought ONE thing in a shop) online. And from only two websites – IWOOT and Amazon. It was brilliant. It was a revaluation. Frankly, it was damned near erotic.
But do you know what the absolute bestest thing in the whole wide world is? It now means that either over the weekend or next week when I go into London to look at all the pretty lights, shop displays down Regent Street and have a mulled wine in Covent Garden, I can do it without the burden of shopping bags. And that, my dear friends, is what it is all about.
Tuesday, 15 December 2009
Drinking Theory
Right, I think I've just about recovered from my weekend of helping someone move hosue. I don't mind if I'm still feeling spectacularly craptacular on a Tuesday if it is because I've been out debauching, misbehaving and pouring a few litres of controlled poison down my neck. In that scenario I do a little dance of joy and sing the praises to the alcohol gods. Unlike many, I accept hangovers as part of the fun. If going on 60 hour benders was easy then every sod would be doing it. No no, hangovers are some deity's way of making sure that only the strong go on such manic drinking sprees.
Sure, you get the weekend warriors who think it is hardcore to go out on Friday AND Saturday night. Don't get me wrong, it is commendable. The drinking of the beer is a highly respectable phenomenon and should be done as often as possible. Students too are good at this, as are estate agents and recruitment consultants. Those are pastimes that seem to be fuelled by booze.
I myself cannot deny that I enjoy a hearty drink from time to time. Although life as a freelancer often means that invoicing levels are directly related to my blood alcohol one, when the bills are paid drinking is one of my favourite hobbies. That and my aquarium.
Actually, though, when you think about it drinking pretty much defies logic. Back in the dark, distant and dingy past of a few years ago when I was still being given some form of an education, one of the classes I took was Psychology. It was actually pretty good fun. I nearly did it at Uni, but then realised the thought of spending another 5 years in education both bored and terrified me. Being a writer that lives month to month is much more rewarding.
Our Psych teacher was actually pretty cool for, you know, a teacher. Not only did Dr. B know her stuff, she also knew how to deal with a bunch of 18 year olds. Sometimes she would do little friendly experiments on us when we got a bit know-it-all, whenever a phone went off she would over analyse the ring tone and we would get onto some terrific tangents. One day, thanks to a big social event the night before, literally her entire class was hung over. How any of us had even made it into college was a mystery. Dr. B tried valiantly to teach us the lesson plan but it was to no avail. We were just counting down the time until the bell so we could head into town for some grease.
In the end we started talking about drinking, which made most of us wretch thoroughly. Who on earth would want to think about drinking in the grips of an almighty hangover? Then she told us something quite interesting. I still find it interesting. I will now tell you, and hopefully you will find it interesting.
Drinking so much alcohol that you fall down wetting yourself in a doorway before eating a Spaniel kebab from a hairy little man and falling asleep on the stairs pretty much defies logic and psychological theory. In theory, after your first hangover you should not want to drink again. We all know about the reinforcement theory of how people learn behaviour – if it is positive, you do it again where as if it is negative you don't. Well, as anyone can tell you, being hungover is most definitely a negative. Yet people still do it. I suppose you could argue that the amount of fun you have before the hangover begins outweighs the hangover itself, but frankly when you are that drunk you've blacked out for most of the fun times and just have a searing headache and wobbly bowels.
Yet people still go drinking anyway. I just find that interesting. Now, anyone fancy a pint?
Sure, you get the weekend warriors who think it is hardcore to go out on Friday AND Saturday night. Don't get me wrong, it is commendable. The drinking of the beer is a highly respectable phenomenon and should be done as often as possible. Students too are good at this, as are estate agents and recruitment consultants. Those are pastimes that seem to be fuelled by booze.
I myself cannot deny that I enjoy a hearty drink from time to time. Although life as a freelancer often means that invoicing levels are directly related to my blood alcohol one, when the bills are paid drinking is one of my favourite hobbies. That and my aquarium.
Actually, though, when you think about it drinking pretty much defies logic. Back in the dark, distant and dingy past of a few years ago when I was still being given some form of an education, one of the classes I took was Psychology. It was actually pretty good fun. I nearly did it at Uni, but then realised the thought of spending another 5 years in education both bored and terrified me. Being a writer that lives month to month is much more rewarding.
Our Psych teacher was actually pretty cool for, you know, a teacher. Not only did Dr. B know her stuff, she also knew how to deal with a bunch of 18 year olds. Sometimes she would do little friendly experiments on us when we got a bit know-it-all, whenever a phone went off she would over analyse the ring tone and we would get onto some terrific tangents. One day, thanks to a big social event the night before, literally her entire class was hung over. How any of us had even made it into college was a mystery. Dr. B tried valiantly to teach us the lesson plan but it was to no avail. We were just counting down the time until the bell so we could head into town for some grease.
In the end we started talking about drinking, which made most of us wretch thoroughly. Who on earth would want to think about drinking in the grips of an almighty hangover? Then she told us something quite interesting. I still find it interesting. I will now tell you, and hopefully you will find it interesting.
Drinking so much alcohol that you fall down wetting yourself in a doorway before eating a Spaniel kebab from a hairy little man and falling asleep on the stairs pretty much defies logic and psychological theory. In theory, after your first hangover you should not want to drink again. We all know about the reinforcement theory of how people learn behaviour – if it is positive, you do it again where as if it is negative you don't. Well, as anyone can tell you, being hungover is most definitely a negative. Yet people still do it. I suppose you could argue that the amount of fun you have before the hangover begins outweighs the hangover itself, but frankly when you are that drunk you've blacked out for most of the fun times and just have a searing headache and wobbly bowels.
Yet people still go drinking anyway. I just find that interesting. Now, anyone fancy a pint?
Sunday, 13 December 2009
Blow by Blow of a crap weekend...
Friday
11:00 – Wake up with hangover
12:00 – Make it downstairs, attempt to work
16:30 – Give up for a bit, try to beat brain into action. Order Pizza
17:00 – Think you finish working for a short Friday. Eat Pizza.
18:00 – Realise you have another job to do. Get indigestion.
20:00 – Finally finish working, start driving to Cambridgeshire
22:00 – Realise the E14 is closed, do 4 junction detour back down the M11
23:30 – Finally get back on track
23:45 – Get pulled over for speeding. Although not getting ticket, get mocked by hot policewoman for not having a criminal record.
00:00 – Finally reach destination.
02:00 – Bed. Sleep.
Saturday
05:00 – Get woken up and get into van.
06:30 – Stop at service station for chocolate and Ribena. Buy copy of The Sun as, frankly, a white van has to have one.
08:15 – Get to flat. Start moving lots of heavy things downstairs out and in to van.
11:00 – Finally finish. Start drive to new flat location.
12:30 – Get to new flat location. Find out that we got there before the person who we are helping move because they stopped for lunch.
13:00 – Person who was the most hated in the world redeems themselves by bringing sausage rolls and cakes.
13:30 – Start unloading truck full off stuff. Double the stairs as before and a time deadline.
14:30 – Work at full pace non stop for an hour. Rain starts.
15:30 – Finally finish dumping boxes, furniture and other miscellaneous crap in flat. No time to hang around as van has to get back
16:45 – After mad dash, get van back
17:00 – Think day is done. No chance, get phone call saying shopping must be done.
17:30 – Finish getting shopping. Finally head back to house.
20:00 – After getting back, find that toddler needs looking after. Play with energetic infant for few hours.
21:30 – Dinner. Nice.
23:00 – Finally pass out through exhaustion.
Sunday
10:00 – Wake up but steadfast refuse to get up before 11am
11:00 – Get up.
11:05 – Get burdened with energetic toddler again.
12:15 – Start driving back home towards London.
13:45 – Get stuck in M25 traffic.
14:00 – Get stuck in M25 traffic.
15:00 -– Get stuck in M25 traffic.
16:00 -– Get stuck in M25 traffic.
17:00 – Get stuck in M25 traffic.
18:00 – Make it home! Realise that Monday morning deadline jobs need to be done. Consider working.
18:20 – Post unfunny blog post
11:00 – Wake up with hangover
12:00 – Make it downstairs, attempt to work
16:30 – Give up for a bit, try to beat brain into action. Order Pizza
17:00 – Think you finish working for a short Friday. Eat Pizza.
18:00 – Realise you have another job to do. Get indigestion.
20:00 – Finally finish working, start driving to Cambridgeshire
22:00 – Realise the E14 is closed, do 4 junction detour back down the M11
23:30 – Finally get back on track
23:45 – Get pulled over for speeding. Although not getting ticket, get mocked by hot policewoman for not having a criminal record.
00:00 – Finally reach destination.
02:00 – Bed. Sleep.
Saturday
05:00 – Get woken up and get into van.
06:30 – Stop at service station for chocolate and Ribena. Buy copy of The Sun as, frankly, a white van has to have one.
08:15 – Get to flat. Start moving lots of heavy things downstairs out and in to van.
11:00 – Finally finish. Start drive to new flat location.
12:30 – Get to new flat location. Find out that we got there before the person who we are helping move because they stopped for lunch.
13:00 – Person who was the most hated in the world redeems themselves by bringing sausage rolls and cakes.
13:30 – Start unloading truck full off stuff. Double the stairs as before and a time deadline.
14:30 – Work at full pace non stop for an hour. Rain starts.
15:30 – Finally finish dumping boxes, furniture and other miscellaneous crap in flat. No time to hang around as van has to get back
16:45 – After mad dash, get van back
17:00 – Think day is done. No chance, get phone call saying shopping must be done.
17:30 – Finish getting shopping. Finally head back to house.
20:00 – After getting back, find that toddler needs looking after. Play with energetic infant for few hours.
21:30 – Dinner. Nice.
23:00 – Finally pass out through exhaustion.
Sunday
10:00 – Wake up but steadfast refuse to get up before 11am
11:00 – Get up.
11:05 – Get burdened with energetic toddler again.
12:15 – Start driving back home towards London.
13:45 – Get stuck in M25 traffic.
14:00 – Get stuck in M25 traffic.
15:00 -– Get stuck in M25 traffic.
16:00 -– Get stuck in M25 traffic.
17:00 – Get stuck in M25 traffic.
18:00 – Make it home! Realise that Monday morning deadline jobs need to be done. Consider working.
18:20 – Post unfunny blog post
Thursday, 10 December 2009
A peek at a prologue
As I continue to find myself in the grips of actual, real paid work, I have no original content. Please consider this exclusive peek at the prologue of the book I'm currently working on as a settlemet.
Prologue: Also known as 'How The Earth Went South'
When planet Earth decided to blow itself up in a haze of nuclear inspired glory, it wasn't considered as terrible an incident as one would think. Let's face facts, by the point that the twenty fourth century came around Earth was a bit of a dump. As more and more people had emigrated off to live out their dreams on the frontiers of space, those who were left behind were little more than the dregs of society.
And the dregs gave an admirable effort in the running of the planet. Initially, a few major players in the whole global politics and business scene stayed behind. They said they would never give up their beloved home world for the cold, dark horribleness of space. Their children, however, often had a different point of view and as the older generations of Earth loving folk died off, their genetic replacements happily took to the skies and went to have space adventures.
As more and more of the traditionally successful left, so to did the institutions and organisations that generally bred their prominence. Eventually, all that was left population wise were those who you wouldn't trust with a pair of safety scissors, the sorts of people who complain about the quality of television that is on at 4 in the morning and the criminally insane. And when those sorts are left to rule over a planet, little things like civilisation and culture pretty much go out the window. No matter what way you slice it, Murder She Wrote is not comparable to Othello.
To begin with, the Galactic Federation tried to take care of the danger zone known as Earth. They tried sending aid and providing some positive economical and political influence. But, as ever when such things are forced on people who just aren't interested in helping the common folk, all they did was swell the pockets of those in charge. Those that actually needed the little things like clean water and some food were, once again, left to twiddle their thumbs and hope that enough fell down through the system.
Eventually, the Galactic Federation got the right old hump with Earth and their pilfering, ungrateful ways. Despite being an organisation started by the human race on the exodus from Earth, the Federation finally ran out of patience with their old planet. The turnover of generations cut the bonds of sentiment with the planet and the Federation gave up, instead focusing their efforts in escaping the Milky Way to try to find other intelligent races who might actually want their help.
A few people trickled off Earth and into the larger space community, but for all intents and purposes the dregs that made up the population of the Homeworld were left to their own devices. And when people are left to their own devices with a chip on their shoulder, bad things normally happen.
In this case, the bad things started off with in fighting. The factions of countries that had formed their own little cliques all blamed each other for arsing off the Galactic Federation and their lovely, 'throw money at it to solve the problem' ways. This disagreement between folks eventually went from petty name calling to little skirmish battles, as each group fought to be the dominant one who would take over the world before currying back the favour of Galactic Federation and their sexy free money. Except it is human nature to not be able to just have little skirmishes. It is human nature to escalate things and not let bygones be bygones.
And when the people having a feud are the dregs of human society who have access to weapons of mass destruction, it became blissfully easy to see where things were heading. On an idle Tuesday afternoon at some point in an unseasonably warm autumn, countries finally had enough of each other and started to send nuclear weapons flying around the globe to land wherever they fancied. To say it left the earth a bit of a mess is an understatement. It wasn't completely trashed, but it definitely went down the used car jargon rankings from 'slightly used' to 'perfect for a restoration project'.
After everyone was done unloading their arsenals of death at each other, there wasn't a whole lot left. Most of the world was a great big crater while the parts that were habitable enjoyed a nice nuclear winter. The Galactic Federation, perhaps feeling a trifle guilty over leaving a planet to self destruct, gave them a little bit of help. They alleviated the nuclear winter in the area that was once the ancient city of London while dumping some old space station modules to help give civilisation a bit of a kick start. Eventually, enough people migrated that way and the human population of Earth began to grow once more. From either word of mouth that spread to the various enclaves that had appeared around the world or after being actively sought out and found on reconnaissance missions, the lost human souls all eventually came to London. This time, however, it was as a singularity.
To begin with, it was glorious. All of humanity joining under one banner in order to rebuild their shattered planet, vowing never again to let their differences get in the way of things. Oh, it was a wonder to behold. Except, once again, human nature sort of always gets in the way of wondrous events. When there is a chance to seize absolute power, people want to seize it absolutely. When there is only one sauce of authority, people will question it all the time.
Eventually, the rebooted human race went much the same of the old way. New London soon turned into a new and updated version of Kowloon Walled City. Instead of being the starting point for the Federation to return the planet that they emerged from to it's former glory, New London became one of the staple stops on the tours of the seediest parts of the universe. It bred crime, it bred illegality and it became a base for many of the worst characters. The fact that the Galactic Federation had given up on it meant that if you wanted to stay off their radar, that was the place you went on your holidays. Or emigrated to.
Which is a shame really. London hadn't been all that badly damaged when the world cut off it's nose to spite it's face. If anything, the whole area had been improved as a stray bomb had landed in Slough. But a self governing cesspool it never the less became.
Earth became nothing but a second thought. Even those who actively tried to separate themselves from the Federation, the Rebels, didn't go there. By the time the 26th century came about, the old Homeworld Earth was, if anything, a taboo. Not one soul of humanity looked back there.
Well, maybe one...
Prologue: Also known as 'How The Earth Went South'
When planet Earth decided to blow itself up in a haze of nuclear inspired glory, it wasn't considered as terrible an incident as one would think. Let's face facts, by the point that the twenty fourth century came around Earth was a bit of a dump. As more and more people had emigrated off to live out their dreams on the frontiers of space, those who were left behind were little more than the dregs of society.
And the dregs gave an admirable effort in the running of the planet. Initially, a few major players in the whole global politics and business scene stayed behind. They said they would never give up their beloved home world for the cold, dark horribleness of space. Their children, however, often had a different point of view and as the older generations of Earth loving folk died off, their genetic replacements happily took to the skies and went to have space adventures.
As more and more of the traditionally successful left, so to did the institutions and organisations that generally bred their prominence. Eventually, all that was left population wise were those who you wouldn't trust with a pair of safety scissors, the sorts of people who complain about the quality of television that is on at 4 in the morning and the criminally insane. And when those sorts are left to rule over a planet, little things like civilisation and culture pretty much go out the window. No matter what way you slice it, Murder She Wrote is not comparable to Othello.
To begin with, the Galactic Federation tried to take care of the danger zone known as Earth. They tried sending aid and providing some positive economical and political influence. But, as ever when such things are forced on people who just aren't interested in helping the common folk, all they did was swell the pockets of those in charge. Those that actually needed the little things like clean water and some food were, once again, left to twiddle their thumbs and hope that enough fell down through the system.
Eventually, the Galactic Federation got the right old hump with Earth and their pilfering, ungrateful ways. Despite being an organisation started by the human race on the exodus from Earth, the Federation finally ran out of patience with their old planet. The turnover of generations cut the bonds of sentiment with the planet and the Federation gave up, instead focusing their efforts in escaping the Milky Way to try to find other intelligent races who might actually want their help.
A few people trickled off Earth and into the larger space community, but for all intents and purposes the dregs that made up the population of the Homeworld were left to their own devices. And when people are left to their own devices with a chip on their shoulder, bad things normally happen.
In this case, the bad things started off with in fighting. The factions of countries that had formed their own little cliques all blamed each other for arsing off the Galactic Federation and their lovely, 'throw money at it to solve the problem' ways. This disagreement between folks eventually went from petty name calling to little skirmish battles, as each group fought to be the dominant one who would take over the world before currying back the favour of Galactic Federation and their sexy free money. Except it is human nature to not be able to just have little skirmishes. It is human nature to escalate things and not let bygones be bygones.
And when the people having a feud are the dregs of human society who have access to weapons of mass destruction, it became blissfully easy to see where things were heading. On an idle Tuesday afternoon at some point in an unseasonably warm autumn, countries finally had enough of each other and started to send nuclear weapons flying around the globe to land wherever they fancied. To say it left the earth a bit of a mess is an understatement. It wasn't completely trashed, but it definitely went down the used car jargon rankings from 'slightly used' to 'perfect for a restoration project'.
After everyone was done unloading their arsenals of death at each other, there wasn't a whole lot left. Most of the world was a great big crater while the parts that were habitable enjoyed a nice nuclear winter. The Galactic Federation, perhaps feeling a trifle guilty over leaving a planet to self destruct, gave them a little bit of help. They alleviated the nuclear winter in the area that was once the ancient city of London while dumping some old space station modules to help give civilisation a bit of a kick start. Eventually, enough people migrated that way and the human population of Earth began to grow once more. From either word of mouth that spread to the various enclaves that had appeared around the world or after being actively sought out and found on reconnaissance missions, the lost human souls all eventually came to London. This time, however, it was as a singularity.
To begin with, it was glorious. All of humanity joining under one banner in order to rebuild their shattered planet, vowing never again to let their differences get in the way of things. Oh, it was a wonder to behold. Except, once again, human nature sort of always gets in the way of wondrous events. When there is a chance to seize absolute power, people want to seize it absolutely. When there is only one sauce of authority, people will question it all the time.
Eventually, the rebooted human race went much the same of the old way. New London soon turned into a new and updated version of Kowloon Walled City. Instead of being the starting point for the Federation to return the planet that they emerged from to it's former glory, New London became one of the staple stops on the tours of the seediest parts of the universe. It bred crime, it bred illegality and it became a base for many of the worst characters. The fact that the Galactic Federation had given up on it meant that if you wanted to stay off their radar, that was the place you went on your holidays. Or emigrated to.
Which is a shame really. London hadn't been all that badly damaged when the world cut off it's nose to spite it's face. If anything, the whole area had been improved as a stray bomb had landed in Slough. But a self governing cesspool it never the less became.
Earth became nothing but a second thought. Even those who actively tried to separate themselves from the Federation, the Rebels, didn't go there. By the time the 26th century came about, the old Homeworld Earth was, if anything, a taboo. Not one soul of humanity looked back there.
Well, maybe one...
Wednesday, 9 December 2009
Paid Work Foils Us Again
Sorry for no update yesterday. That pesky paid work got in the way. I suppose I could have knocked something together at 3am when I finished, but didn't think I should inflict a foul mouthed rant at you guys. I like you too much.
I'll be back tomorrow with a real life, sensible post.
I'll be back tomorrow with a real life, sensible post.
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