Time Travelling. Again.

 Occasionally I like to travel back in time and corner myself in the snug of The White Hart, Basingstoke. I ply the much younger me with drinks as I tell him about the future. Neither of us enjoys the experience much. He doesn't like it because a) I'm older than my dad would have been at the time b) the fucking state of me, and c) I never have any good news for him. I don't like it either, because nothing ever seems to get through to this idiot. 

Me: Alright, mate. 

Him: Jesus. You shat me right up. 

Me: Well, it's quite quiet, this process. It's like electric cars. Electric cars are required to emit an artificial noise, known as AVAS, to alert people to the fact their about to get mown down by ludicrous phantom people carriers. 

Him: Sigh. 

Me: What? 

Him: I mean, you've started with the bollocks already, haven't you? I mean, I thought we had an arrangement: beer first, bollocks later. At least let me relax into it a bit. 

Me: Fair enough, actually. What do you fancy? 

Him: Heineken. Do they still have Heineken in...what are we up to now? 

Me: Yes, they still have Heineken, just about. 2025. 

Him: That's just stupid. That's just some ludicrous Buck Rogers nonsense. 2025. So, I'm...

Me: Don't try and work it out in your head. 

Him: . . .

Me: 54. 

Him: 54. Fuck. You look...

Me: Fat, yes. Wrinkly. Shorter. 

Him: How have your teeth got better? 

Me: I bought them. Cheers. One pound six a pint. Bloody hell. 

Him: I know, this place. It's a fucking rip off. Right, electric cars. 

Me: Nah, forget them. 

Him: Still can't drive? 

Me: No. 

Him: So what's all this in aid of. I haven't got round to computers yet. 

Me: For fuck's sake. I told you: "Get into computers. Just get a working knowledge. It's important."

Him: Can you work a computer? 

Me: Not well. Not well enough. Everything is computers in the future. Everything. 

Him: Not if I'm a rock star. 

Me: You're not going to be a rock star. 

Him: Oh. Come on. That was a bit...

Me: In 2025 there are no rock stars. Not like there were. Music isn't really the same. I mean, there are rock stars, just not new ones. Rock music is for old people now. The Rolling Stones are still going. The Beatles had a hit last year. Number one. 

Him: What song? 

Me: New song. It's called "Now and Then". 

Him: But there's only three of them left. 

Me: Two. But all four of them are on it. They did it with computers. Basically, there's a thing called AI and it's sort of the death of all human creativity. What are you studying? 

Him: I'm doing an art foundation course. But I'm going to specialise in illustration. 

Me: Yeah. Gone. No more illustration. AI does it now. Music? AI can do that now. Books? AI can do that for you. Need a voice-over from an inconveniently dead celebrity? You need AI. You know video games? 

Him: No. Like, er, Tetris? 

Me: Sort of. Well, imagine a Tetris that's indistinguishable from live action cinema. 

Him: I can't really. 

Me: Yeah, Tetris was a bad choice. Like Stone Henge repeatedly dropping on you. Oh, they've made a new Spinal Tap. 

Him: Finally, something to look forward to. Any good? 

Me: Dunno. Haven't seen it. It's not out yet. The interviews are good but the reviews are bad. So, they're talking now about actors selling their likenesses to studios, so they can be animated by AI forever. So, no more actors. Or just the same actors forever. And the same bands forever. And books that do whatever you want. Every book is a "choose your own adventure" book now. No more authors. Or everyone's an author. No more auteurs. 

Him: Like socialism in action. 

Me: Not really, no. Society's going in a different direction. We have Nazis again. 

Him: The fuck? Come on. 

Me: Yeah, kind of. The president of America is called Donald Trump. He used to be a game show host. Before that he was a guest star in Hart to Hart and a Bo Derek film called Ghosts Can't Do It. Prior to that he used to hang around in Studio 54, sniffing aggressively and waving his gold card around. Prior to that he was a slum landlord and a draft dodger. He sells himself as a brilliant businessman, but he's bankrupted six businesses. He claims to be a Christian family man, but he cheats on his wives, pays off porn stars, and espouses a philosophy of cruelty, revenge, schadenfreude, and performative vindictiveness, as though the ten commandments were something from the Bizarro world, and the only sane response to this woke nonsense is to do the exact opposite: covet that oxen, dishonour the family. On top of that, he is, allegedly, a traitor, a rapist and a paedophile, and he is positioning himself as an American dictator. 

Him: I really enjoy these visits. 

Me: Yeah, I'm not sure you're going to get much out of this other than the beer. 

Him: Is anyone doing anything about this man? The President? Who sounds like really on the nose, broad satire. A fucking gameshow host? This is like Spitting Image! Which I think is shit, by the way. 

Me: No, not really. They're mainly kissing his arse, while he destroys the world economy and sends militias into cities that don't kiss his arse enough. It's pretty bad. 

Him: What else? What's woke? 

Me: Woke's just being a decent human being. But that's bad now. What else? Russia has invaded Ukraine. No one is doing anything about that. Israel is destroying Palestine. No one is doing anything about that. Global warming means every summer things spontaneously catch fire while simultaneously being under water. Everyone and everything is full of microplastics. That's, like, really small bits of plastic. I think they're in my brain right now. People are denying climate change exists, still, even though we've known about it for a hundred years. 

Him: Right. That might be enough. 

Me: We have a Labour government. 

Him: That's...good isn't it? 

Me: No. 

Him: No, of course not. Why would it be? 

Me: So there are people protesting about the genocide in Gaza. Old folk, old school lefties, people with beards and anoraks, holding up placards, protesting, as is their legal right. 

Him: So, someone's doing something, at least. But there's going to be a counter-intuitive second part to this, isn't there? 

Me: The government have designated them terrorists. Hundreds have been arrested. 

Him: For holding up bits of cardboard? 

Me: That's correct. 

Him: The Labour government? 

Me: Yes. 

Him: Can I have another pint? 

Me: Oh God, yes. 

Interlude. 

Me: I bought two pints and two bags of dry roasted with a fiver. And there's change! I could have bought four pints. 

Him: He's a cock behind the bar, though. 

Me: He is, yeah. 

Him: So, the world is both damp and burning, there's pollution everywhere, the Labour government aren't nice. The American president's a monster. There's loads of war and massive wealth disparity. Computers do all the arts and there are no rock stars and if there were I'm not one of them. I've split up with Nicky, and I've got fat and old and...is there something up with your legs? 

Me: Yeah. 

Him: Not sure why you're wearing skinny jeans, then. Are we, are we dressed the same? 

Me: I don't think...

Him: We are: jeans with turn-ups, desert boots, a tee-shirt. Bloody hell, it's like I haven't changed in, what, 35 years? That's tragic. Christ. I thought I'd be in, I don't know, suits by now. Like a grown up. 

Me: I've worn suits. I have a suit. I've been to a lot of funerals, son, believe me. I have a suit. I got married, you prick. 

Him: Alright, I don't know. 

Me: I have a suit. Suits. You should think yourself lucky. I wore suits for years working in shitty office jobs. This current casual style is because I don't work in offices anymore. I'm a writer. I've published...

Him:... three books in the last year. Yes, you've mentioned. 

Me: And films, and theatre, and animation, and hundreds of reviews and editorials. Plus radio and podcasts. And DJing. I'm going to do DJing now. 

Him: Christ. 

Me: It's cool. I do it all. It's the gig economy, mate. You'll find out. 

Him: Do you make any money out of it? 

Me: And the band. I'm currently making an album. 

Him: You're 54. That's nearly ten years older than Mick Jagger in my time. 

Me: Fuck off. 

Him: He's like 47 or something in 1989.

Me: Well, it's different now. Anyone can make a record. The technology means you can make an album on your laptop. 

Him: With AI? 

Me: No, with a professor of mythology who lives in Essex. It's not like the past. We can just talk to each other in different countries. 

Him: The internet, yeah. Which you thought was evil. 

Me: It has its upsides. Like anything, it depends on how you use it. I'm fascinating and wise and therefore only use it for good, instead of evil. 

Him. Okay. That sounds quite good. What's the band called? 

Me: Ebbing House. 

Him: Ebbing House? Like house music? 

Me: No. 

Him: I was going to say, I'm not sure that's one of your strengths, Italian house piano. Ebbing House? 

Me: Yes. 

Him: It's a bit of shit name. 

Me: You know nothing. It's really cool. What would you call a band? 

Him: The Misericords. 

Me: No. That's...feeble...that's, no that's quite good. Shit. 

Him: More beer. 

Interlude. 

Me: I'd forgotten about Kent Brockman. In the toilets. 

Him: Oh yeah. He's a character. I don't know what's braver: the brass balls of constantly hanging round the bogs staring at people's cocks, or the grey leather jacket and curly white hair combo. Very aging. Did he check you out? 

Me: No. 

Him: No, well, you're probably not his type. You were, though. 

Me: You're very proud of an old man staring at your cock in the toilets. Might I remind you it's the same cock. 

Him: Yeah, the context may have changed. Go on, then. What are my favourite pop stars doing? 

Me: Mainly good news, I think. Who do you like in 89? 

Him: House of Love, My Bloody Valentine, A R Kane, The Fall, Colourbox, Pixies, Throwing Muses, Lloyd Cole, REM, The Smiths, though they split up. Jesus and Mary Chain. The Bunnymen. All sorts, really. 

Me: All sorts of indie music made by white people with guitars. I have good news for you: in the next couple of years you're really going to get into Hip Hop, and what they once called "sampledelica" - it's going to open you up like invasive surgery. In the 90's, it'll be funk, African funk, trip hop, post rock, country blues, Eurobeat, reggae, French psyche, jazz, and Early Music. Oh, and lots weird German stuff. 

Him: Will I be able to sit in a room, in the afternoon sunshine, writing a novel, surrounded by Polish cinema posters and books and skulls, listening to Erik Satie, and drinking black coffee. You know. My dream. 

Me: I did that this afternoon. 

Him: You have finally proved your worth. What about the pop stars? 

Me: In the future, bands just go on and on. There's a huge nostalgia market. So, House of Love put out a record three years ago on Cherry Red. I haven't heard it. It's Guy and some guys now. My Bloody Valentine are all still alive. After Isn't Anything they put out a record called Loveless which sounded like vulcanised whales fucking in a bath of beans. They put out another album called MBV, strong title, guys, in 2013. I haven't bothered with it. A R Kane are still around, doing live gigs, but I'm not sure they're still recording. Mark E Smith of The Fall died at the age of only 60 in 2018. He was The Fall, so The Fall died with him. However, there are a few bands around, including The Fallen, made up of sacked members of the band - which is every member but Mark - who play the old stuff, to applause and acclaim. Colourbox, dunno. The Pixies are still gigging and recording, though they sacked Kim Deal. But she started a band called The Breeders who had some hits, proper ones, and her debut solo album was one of my favourites of last year. She was 63. And it was great. Throwing Muses, who have been a band since I was ten - so 8 years for you, 44 for me - played the Black Box in Belfast recently, and I didn't even see them. I listened to the new album, though. Kristin's gone a bit Bryan Ferry, the voice turned to water and smoke, but the album was really good. Lloyd Cole plays a lot of golf - he likes American things - and releases occasional agreeable records, some of which don't sound like you'd expect. REM split up. Michael Stipe is a sort of fashionista now. It's odd. But okay. The Jesus and Mary Chain still gig, I think the Bunnymen still gig, though it's just Mac and Will now. They made a football record at one point, but I'm willing to overlook it because I really like "My Kingdom". 

Him: That is a good one. 

Me: The guitar!

Him: I know!

Me: Anyway, I better be heading. Time travel waits for no man. Well, it does, that's sort of the point. But I better get...

Him: Can I have another beer? 

Me: Well...

Him: You bought me six last time. 

Me: You were supposed to get into computers. 

Him: I'll do it. Honest. 

Interlude. 

Him: Cheers. You missed one. 

Me: Missed what? 

Him: A band. The Smiths. 

Me: Right. 

Him: Well? 

Me: What do you want to know? 

Him: How's Morrissey doing? His first solo record was good. 

Me: Yeah. 

Him: Did he die or something? 

Me: No, it's worse than that. 

Him: Oh. 

Me: He will disappoint you. He'll do a couple of albums in about five years you'll really like, though. They're called Your Arsenal and Vauxhall and I. 

Him: Those are shit titles. 

Me: He has singles called "November Spawned a Monster" and "You're The One For Me, Fatty", which are demonstrably awful titles. But that's not the reason you'll be disappointed. Oh, Mary Margaret O'Hara is on "November Spawned a Monster". 

Him: Oh wow. 

Me: Yeah, she's ill served. Ill served. So, in the future, where I'm from, Morrissey lives in America, because he thinks the England he loved is gone forever. He stopped being the repressed milquetoast he was in the eighties, and got ripped - muscular - and physically confident. On one ill advised occasion he and his band were photographed naked, with seven inch singles strategically placed over their penises. 

Him: Christ. 

Me: Andy Rourke and Mike Joyce sued Morrissey and Marr for performance royalties, and Morrissey was described in court as "devious, truculent and unreliable" which seems fairly accurate. Morrissey's autobiography, Autobiography, spent much of its latter half - and it's a big book - discussing the unfairness of this court case in dull, unrelenting, unending detail. What he doesn't do, at any point in the book, is discuss how he writes his songs. Which, you know, would have been quite interesting. These days Morrissey and Marr spend most of their time feuding. Marr seems to own the band's name, mainly because Morrissey couldn't be bothered with the paperwork. Marr still ensured Morrissey got half of the ownership, even though he couldn't be arsed with the paperwork. Morrissey later tried to spin this as Marr wanting to tour with a new singer. Morrissey's recently been in the press because his album - the best of his career, but they are all the best of his career - and which is titled "Bonfire of the Teenagers" - yes, that's terrible - isn't being released by anyone. He's flitted from record company to record company, from manager to manager, and now the latest record company is refusing to release it. Morrissey thinks this is censorship, that it's undemocratic, that he's being gagged, and denied his free speech. I mean, he could release it himself, but he won't do that. He'd rather be hard done by and have a tale of woe to tell. Morrissey's self pity seems to have calcified. He uses it as armour now. It's more important than the music, the fame. He supports right wing political parties, writes songs that sound explicitly racist but which he says are anything but. He wrote a novel that was comically bad. He's now in the process of trying to sell his business interests in The Smiths, citing the endless, ongoing cruelty of Marr, Rourke and Joyce, destroying his life, despite the fact that Rourke is dead, he's still attacking Morrissey, a man who is only happy when he's dishing it out. Also, he's starting dressing quite strangely: pin-stripe jackets, tee shirts with anti-Guardian slogans written on them, distressed with blim holes and torn collars. Boot cut jeans with brown shoes, rosaries wrapped round his throat and wrists. A grey mullet, touching his mutilated collar. 

Him: Alright, enough. Bloody hell. Stop. 

Me: Sorry. 

Him: Is it worth it? Is it worth surviving. Everything seems to be going to shit. No, everything seems to have gone to shit. What's the point of me getting into computers when, according to you, computers are ruining everything. Is there a point? Why should I not use train tracks as a head rest. My band goes nowhere, my girlfriend...I'm guessing she dumps me...

Me: She does, yeah. 

Him: Great. Beer costs too much. There are Nazis. I mean what's the point. Why would I carry on if it's all shit? 

Me: You are cursed. Cursed with hope. You always think something will turn up, even though, historically, nothing ever turns up. But it might. If you just keep pushing and pushing, you might achieve something, anything. 

Him: That sounds like a hassle. 

Me: It is a bit of a hassle, yeah. But I tell you this: when I get back, and write up the notes of this conversation, I'll be doing it in a small, nicely appointed home, surrounded by thousands of DVDs - they're like fancy video tapes - of films I adore. It'll be a blue sky sunny day, the room will smell of Geranium and Basil, I'll be sipping a cup of Earl Grey from a Vyne House mug. Later on I might make a delicious meal because I can cook now, and I enjoy cooking. And that's it. That's what I'll do today. At the moment, at this precise moment, I can do what I want. I make up stories. I introduce films. I guest on podcasts or the radio - a podcast is sort of...it's just radio. That's what you get to do. In the future, that may change - maybe I'll be working in a salt mine in Ballymoney, or dying of gangrene in a field hospital because hospitals are just fields since Reform got in - Reform is another bad thing. Oh, and we're not in Europe anymore. 

Him: What does that even mean? Europe's still there, though. 

Me: It is, though a lot of it is very right wing. The point is, you find a way to be happy. I don't know about what's happening tomorrow, but in 2025, despite a general sense that everything you ever valued is being systematically dismantled, there is still a space for you to be happy and loved and even content. 

Him: Sounds a bit solipsistic. 

Me: Sometimes you have to raise the drawbridge, boil the oil. 

Him: I'll drink to that. 

Beat. 

Me: Oh, my round is it? 

When I got back - time traveling, remember - nothing had changed. I wasn't fitter, I couldn't play guitar, I wasn't tech savvy. I lived in the same house, in the same country, with the same gammy leg. The twat. He'd let me down again. What the hell was wrong with him? Then I remembered, because I was him and we were the same, and we were bloody useless. Sigh. 

One thing though, my copy of "Kill Uncle" was missing.