“Excuse me, Madam, is this the future?”
“Yes, “she replies,” and the food’s terrible: there’s none left. We not just biting our fingernails, we’re chewing other peoples’ too!”
The WG begs me, Professor Brion Damage, to find tasty alternatives to cannibalism. And my brilliant idea is to dry sea plankton, then spin it into edible wool ready for testing on a remote Scottish island.
Thus it comes to pass that flocks of hungry Jocks, return from the Glen to find their wee wives knitting haggis by the fire; and plankton burgers in green slime for the kiddies. And bless me bagpipes and spit on me sporran, they’re all just scotsilicious! Trouble is, there’s plenty of plankton wool to spare in the crofts. So thrifty hands use it to knit other things, like a smart bikini for Nan here, some modest shorts for the Vicar there, and much much more.
The end begins when all these plankton awake, and spawn collective consciousness in the salty sea air; then pull together. So hard that Nan’s bikini contracts violently, and out pop her mams! At Evening Service, our Vicar’s woolly keks throttle his plums and up his sermon from basso to castrato!
Even when lobbed into the loch, the vast shoals of edible woollens, from Celtic scarves and bed socks, to fearsome willy-warmers, writhe away like evil serpent beasties to devour the planet. Food for fright indeed!
There’s no future here, I reflect, revving up my time machine and throwing this notice at the cannibal mob, snapping at my ankles: Gone to Lunch - Back in Two Millennia.
© Mike Atkinson
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