Ladies and gentlemen!
Roll up roll up!
The world as we know it is ending
crashing
crumbling
crumpling
bleeding
like a car wreck engineered by retarded geniuses.

Ladies and gentlemen!
Welcome to the UK!
The spanking, sparkling
uber-liberal, CCTV-ridden,
racist, immigrant-dependent,
calm, ordered, collectively psychopathological
state of now!

Ladies and gentlemen!
I implore you!
Observe your streets! Observe the rot and decay of your streets!

Over there -
A minor celebrity, twice forgotten
crouching in a skip
mobile aloft
happy slapping herself through strings of ragged, twisted blonde hair
whilst chewing exotic animal genitals for scraps of attention!

And witness, witness if you will!
The obese family
being forcefully examing by fitness and fat fascists
with Golden Arches
that have been melted and reconsituted microscopes!
The crowd gather round and laugh, laugh, laugh
at the poor family who don't have time
to luxurise their eating, reading and thinking habits!
And the obese siblings and parents cry, cry, cry
their tears of molten toffee!

And gander, gander, yonder!
Genetically modified gibbons selling slathering human gimps
from the back of a truck.
And every time one of the gimps struggles
in a vain attempt to get free of its leash
the gibbon grabs a binlid
and, with suprising ferocity,
smashes the poor leatherbound creature over the face,
who in turn shrieks, weeps and cowers feotal.


The barricades to the police station weaken
as the pus-dripping zombies
(their wounds still fresh from gunshots and truncheon batterings)
swagger, moan and hammer against the doors.
Finally, they break through
and, mindlessly staggering, disappear into the building.
Gunshots
endless plumes of violent black smoke
scatterings
shrieks
screams
gurgles
skin tears
split heads
bloody footprints
and, finally, the twitching of dead feet
are all assumed to have happened.

Through the shop window:
Pre-robbed televisions stacked showing
the same image folded over and over -
duct tape being ripped off The Currently Most Popular Singer/Songwriter's mouth
as he begs the television screens through boyish tears for his release
from the vigilante mob of studded leather punks who hold
shards of shattered Crass records to his tight, pulsing throat.

The Reverend grips a petrol-dipped crucifix.
In one quick match stroke, the cross is aflame
and spinning towards the shop window...

Cut to:

Freeze frame on the crucifix's impact, shattered glass fingernails hang still in the air, The Reverend's face red with rage.

Professional, fashionable, mastabatory opinions primed to spray forth. The Presenter turns to his three faceless guests in the minimally designed studio.

PRESENTER: So, Francesca, your thoughts?

FRANCESCA: This is clearly a metaphor for religion's insidious power. Look at the ferocity with which he throws the crucifix – it perfectly reflects the aggression of religion as it eclipses people's natural rationality -

TIM (Cutting in): - Francesca, I have to disagree with you. The fact the crucifix is burning is clearly important. The burning crucifix, of course, is a classic symbol of the Ku Klux Klan and therefore The Reverend is in fact making a statement about the racism that is endemic in our society and in Christianity. Jesus' somewhat magical transformation into a white man, for example -

PRESENTER: Jane, what do you think?

JANE: Well, I think The Reverend is basically -

PRESENTER: Well, that's great. We're all agreed?

FRANCESCA: We agree in some aspects, but not in others.

PRESENTER: Fantastic stuff. Good night!

Fade out

Cue abrasive, self-important theme tune.

Right wing tabloids shriek:

THE END IS NIGH DUE TO PREGNANT TEENAGE LESBIANS WEARING SHOES MADE SOLELY OUT OF ORGANIC YOGHURT

Left wing tabloids shriek:

THE END IS NIGH DUE TO THE RIGHT WING TABLOIDS SHRIEKING ABOUT THE END BEING NIGH DUE TO PREGNANT TEENAGE LESBIANS WEARING SHOES MADE SOLELY OUT OF ORGANIC YOGHURT

The government shrieks:

THE END IS DEFINITELY NOT NIGH, WE HAVE A PLAN IN PLACE, IT'S ALL BEING SORTED OUT, SO KEEP VOTING, PAYING TAXES, SHUT UP AND STOP WORRYING YOU GORMLESS GAGGLE OF CLUELESS CRETINS

History, culture, politics
all reaching their epochs...
Every pocket slowly repeating itself
Molding, folding, refolding
Holding on to nothing
but futile gestures and
empty shimmering pictures.

There's anger in retention!
Opposing thesis and anithesis
creating tension
unaware they are, in fact,
trapped in the same ring of Being
and they completely depend on each other's rage
for their subjective ideas of Progress.

The wheels are slowly rusting
but somehow spinning faster and faster.
The sparks are flying,
the doors have split off,
the steering wheel's melted,
the engine's exploded,
each seat is aflame,
The Driver's bailed,
OHMYGOD
OHMYGOD
OHMYGOD

The streets break.
Slowly at first.
Cracks begin appearing.
Dogs' heads crane
feeling the soft burblings underneath.
The burblings become rumbles.
Windows shiver and collapse.
Doors shake.
The cracks get wider and wider and wider and wider
as the streets split with the angriest grin
as if ripped apart by the maddest hands in the world.
People try to run
but everyone fails, falls
eventually tumbling in
some screaming
some crying
some silently accepting
the anti-nothing swallowing everyone and everything.

And then there is quiet.
The rumbling subsides.
For hours, days, weeks, months, years, decades, maybe even centuries...
there's no one around to tell.

Then, one afternoon,
a hand reaches up over the edge.
And another.
And another.
And another.
And another.
Hands hauling bodies up to the surface.
Dirty, ragged, dripping with cold lava
as the people rise.

The skies, like a fever breaking,
swell, then spit, then drip, then scatter, then torrent
cool rain over the people
washing their skins of recent non-history.
Newborn fresh eyes seeing a kalaeidescope
of new times, new dimensions, new splits in the road.

Fractured, battered, but united.

We step forward regardless
into the inevitable, unstopped future.