Time Traveling. Again. Again.

 I meet myself in The White Hart pub in Basingstoke as usual. I can tell, as soon as I meet him, that I haven't taken any of the advice I gave myself the last time we met. I don't really expect him to. I don't have any children, but I feel paternal towards this rudderless idiot. I know the mistakes he's about to make. He refuses to help himself and I'm foolish to expect him to. I wobble, mysteriously, back in time - I'm not about to go into it - just to see him, to see how he's getting on. He's taken to wearing beads. The hair's slightly shorter and he's moved away from hairspray and onto wax. His thirst remains undiminished. I remember this was the age where I would continue to drink until I passed out, so I'm careful to ration the beers. He doesn't seem to mind. He's grateful for free lager. But I want him to remember our conversations, even if he doesn't really take anything in. It's partly my fault. I'm too old. I always had a problem with old people thinking they knew it all. I remember. I did sponsored runs for Help The Aged. If they were all that, why did they need my help? 

Idiot. 

Time Straggler

Me: Alright? 

Him: Alright? This is starting to feel a bit normal. It's like having a pen friend. From the future. Who keeps showing up. 

Me: Where are we now? 

Him: White Hart, Basingstoke. 

Me: Timewise, smart arse. Where are we timewise? 

Him: You should know. You're a time traveler, aren't you? Haven't you got a special watch or something? A tunnel? Room full of blokes in white coats? How does it work, anyway? This time travel thing. Is everybody doing it? 

Me: No, just me. I can't go into it. Spoilers. 

Him: Spoilers? What do you mean? Like on a car? Can I drive, finally? 

Me: No, you can't drive. 

Him: I can't even drive. What have you been doing for thirty odd years? 

Me: You will live in London. You don't need to run a car in London. 

Him: I live in London? Okay. Cool. Well, timewise, I'm still living at home but I'm doing a foundation art course in Winchester. Getting the train in every day. 

Me: Oh great. You have a great time at Winchester. 

Him: Really? I mean, it's okay. It would be better if I was actually staying there. I wouldn't say I'm having a great time.  

Me: Believe me, you are. You'll look back on this time with tremendous affection. It's one of the best times of your life. 

Him: So the future's worse? 

Me: I mean, you're marking on a curve...

Him: What does that mean? 

Me: It's means, in comparison to...other stuff, later, this time will feel like a golden age of endless possibilities, your jeunesse dorée. 

Him: Right. 

Me: You know how you were a greasy little oik with Hitler hair at school but bloomed at sixth form into a witty and charming fop. 

Him: Yes. 

Me: Yeah, this is kind of the end of that. 

Him: Right. 

Me: What you do is, as usual, faff about, not bother to apply to any University courses, go into clearing, end up on a really unsuitable course, but go anyway because its the path of least resistance. 

Him: I wont do that. I'm not an idiot. 

Me: You will do that, because you, we, are an idiot. And that's what I did. And given this is now my third trip to the past and you haven't acted on any of my advice, it's what you'll continue to do. I take it you haven't done anything with computers yet? 

Him: I'll get round to it. Besides, I can't afford a computer - they're like 500 quid. I'm broke. I'm always broke, remember? 

Me: Do you want a drink? 

Him: Please. 

                                                                             *********

Him: So, then. What's happening in the future? 

Me: Do you just want to chat about things you like? What are you into now? The Smiths? Sean's Show? Er, Egon Schiele? 

Him: I don't really like The Smiths any more. 

Me: You do. 

Him: Alright. But I'm also into Tribe Called Quest and Deee-lite and Inner City, okay? I like S'Express and Sugarcubes. Oh, and Starsailor by Tim Buckley...wait, you're being evasive. Why aren't you talking about the future? Is it AIDS? Have we all got AIDS? 

Me: No, in my time people with H.I.V. can live happy, normal lives. 

Him: Right. Well, that's good, isn't it? 

Me: Of course. 

Him: That's a positive. Good. Is it nuclear war? 

Me: No. Nuclear war hasn't happened, at least not yet. At any rate, it's way down the list of potential disasters. 

Him: That's reassuring. A nuclear holocaust is a bit vanilla in the scheme of things. 

Me: Wait, "vanilla"? I don't think people from your time described things as a bit "vanilla". 

Him: I got it from you. I do listen to you, you know. Vanilla. Marking on a curve. Morrissey's a prick now. I've been trying to get vanilla to catch on, but it's not really getting much traction. Traction, that's another one. 

Me: I shouldn't bother. You're not exactly the wellspring of of neologistic sport. And that's the sort of bootstrap paradox I can't be getting involved with. 

Him: You talk like a writer, at least. I'll give you that. Thing is, do you write like a writer? Is it, I want to say...Dump? 

Me: Trump. Wow. You really do listen. In a charmingly half-arsed way. 

Him: I could I not? You're so wise and fascinating. 

Me: Sagacious, yeah. Known for it. Yes, Trump's a big part of all the awfulness, but in Britain we also have a resurgence of incredibly far right idiots. I've tried for so long not to call them idiots. I tried to listen to them, hear their views, understand their perspective, their "legitimate concerns", because they say that's all they want, just for people to hear their voice. But the knee-jerk, intolerant left want to silence them, to cancel them - "cancelling" people is a whole thing - to put them in prison for the crime of just caring about their family, Christianity, and their country which, let's not forget, people fought and died for. Other people. Not them. So, I listened. You have no choice anyway, this silenced minority are never off the telly or the front pages or standing in threatening silence in a face mask made from pants outside a courtroom near you. But the problem is that when you do listen to them they reveal themselves to be nasty, mendacious, empathy-free morons. We live in an age of social media, and I feel like a monster for even mentioning this to you in your perfect innocence. It's like taking a shit in the Garden of Eden. 

Him: It's cool. I'm not that innocent. I've done it with girls. 

Me: One girl. 

Him: Well, I mean, if you count...no. Right. Continue. 

Me: There's a thing called social media, it's on the internet which, again, is on computers.  

Him: And you have a computer? 

Me: I have three. 

Him: What the fuck happened to you, man? Not cool. Not cool. 

Me: Yeah, we also need to talk about telephones. 

Him: You can carry them round in your pocket. I know. You said. I can't think of any reason why anyone would want that. I don't even like using the phone. 

Me: Wait till you work in a call centre for five years...

Him: What's a...

Me: I cannot believe your lack of gumption! I'm handing you gold here and you're like, "I don't even like using the phone"! You should be using this secret knowledge to make some money. Somehow. Don't you want to be rich? 

Him: No. Not if it means selling out. 

Me: God, I hate you. You're the reason I'm poor. 

Him: And you're the reason you're a drunk. 

Me: What do you mean? 

Him: Cheers. 

Me: Touche. Anyway, phones are also computers and they can do anything. How much did your last demo tape cost? What's the band called? Mouth? God's Rubber Teeth? 

Him: Still, still. I dunno. Fifty quid a head. Something like that. 

Me: And you did it in a shed on an industrial estate? 

Him: It wasn't Abbey Road, no. 

Me: In my time, there's a thing called Garage Band. It's a recording studio that lives in your phone. You can make entire albums with your phone. And the production quality is better than some bass player in a metal band in Mortimer's garden shed. 

Him: So why doesn't everyone make music all the time? 

Me: They do. The world is choked with bad songs. And if you use AI you don't have to play anything, write the words, or even sing it. The computer does it all for you. 

Him: But what's the point? 

Me: Oh, there's no point. Everything now, pretty much, is pointless. 

Him: I see. You've mentioned A.I. before...

Me: Artificial Intelligence. 

Him: So computers can think? They're alive? I wasn't expecting that. 

Me: Some people think they're thinking. But I don't. They're not alive. They're not sentient. I think. 

Him: You don't sound sure. 

Me: I'm never sure of anything. That's my secret weapon. It keeps you very agile, the ground continually crumbling beneath your feet. I'm not sure of anything, but I don't believe everything either. I'm not credulous, I don't think. 

Him: What has any of this got to do with the far right idiots? Congratulations on not getting right wing as you got older, by the way. 

Me: I think that usually happens after significant financial success. I'm effectively immune to selfish politics. I've inoculated myself against it with a tenacious pursuit of failure. 

Him: Something to look forward to then. I thought it was the dispossessed and disenfranchised who tended to stand behind fascist bully boys. So they can blame foreigners and different ethnic groups for all the things. 

Me: The difference between me and them is that, deep down, I think I deserve to be poor. 

Him: How do you work that out? 

Me: In my time there's a thing called White Male Privilege. 

Him: Sounds...a bit racist. 

Me: Not a bit of it. White Male Privilege came as a complete surprise to white men, who imagined they'd obtained their lofty position in society through hard work, raw intelligence, a wide skillset, true grit, and natural ability, as opposed to living in a society entirely built by them and for them that rewards them just for being white men. A maleocracy or Viralbusocracy. Don't quote me on that second one. That may be shit Latin. You'd think they'd be quite cool with that. "We've rigged the system. Everything comes back to us with only the slightest effort. Yes." But you'd be wrong. To even suggest that this might be the way the world works is an affront to white men. If you point out that the way society is stacked makes it difficult for women or people of colour, well, they don't take kindly to it. If your entire sense of self is built upon your perceived success, and people suggest you won the race only because everyone else was blindfolded or had their feet tied together, you don't look like such a big winner. 

Him: Right. Where you going with this? There's lots of angry polemic this time around. Everything alright at home, son? 

Me: My point is that I, we, had it all. We were white, male, heterosexual, talented, clever and pretty good-looking. And despite everything, despite the privilege and all that brought, you, I, still contrived to never make any money or achieve any sort of success. It's almost impressive. 

Him: That's why you're here then. You're a warning from history. You want me to change, so I don't end up like you. 

Me: Exactly. 

Him: I'm your pension. 

Me: Well, not exactly. Though if you could pay into a couple of those too that would be great...

Him: You don't look poor. 

Me: A few carefully selected pieces making up a capsule wardrobe...

Him: No, I mean, you don't look like you're...starving. 

Me: I see. 

Him: Sorry, but I mean, look at those apple cheeks. 

Me: It all changed in your lifetime. When we were young, as throughout all history, if you were poor you ate less and you were skinny. But these days, it's posh people who are thin, and peasants like me who pile on the pounds. The food changed. We're stuffed full of sugar and fat. It's cheap. It has little nutritional value, rots our teeth and makes us wear elasticated waistband. But it's cheap. Good food costs more. 

Him: You live in a house. 

Me: Yes. 

Him: You have a partner. You're loved. 

Me: Yes. 

Him: You paint and write. You listen to music. You eat pretty much what you want. You can look out a window and see a tree. You can watch rain on a window, safe in the knowledge that the rain can't get you. You've published books, yeah? You still make music, am I right? 

Me: Er. Okay. 

Him: What the fuck do you want to change? 

Me: I wouldn't mind losing a bit of weight. 

Him: You fucking idiot. 

Me: Hey. 

Him: You've got it all. You've even got hair at, what? 55? Fuck sake. 

Me: I've got eczema! I have to moisturise all over twice a day. I mean, it's not exactly the war in the Middle East, but it's mildly itchy. I'm worried I smell like a bandage. Essence of liniment. 

Him: You're wasting my time here. 

Me: Beer? 

Him: Can you afford it? 

Me: Yes. 

Him: Well, you must be doing pretty okay, then. 

I bought him another couple of beers, then drifted back to the present. I was troubled. Not only had I not ghost-of-Christmas-pasted him, but he'd somehow bested me in a battle of wits. He seemed to think my life was great, better than his. And he was sort of right. All he had going for him was youth and vitality and the security of nobody he loved dying. That was the true gold of youth. No one had died yet. Once they start going they pop out like stars in the night sky. That was the real difference between us. He hadn't met death yet. 

Good. 

I don't want to be the one to tell him. Ignorance is bliss, and he was too clever to ever imagine himself ignorant. He was wrapped up in cotton wool. The lucky bastard.