Am I the only human who hates David Attenborough? That smug supercilious BBC ham; all life on earth is dependent on ME! Simper spouting bland material; not one intelligent novel notion gets to air. Sensurround snug on a Sunday evening; ultra-HD shows the bloodshed spurts, placental slurps, the whites of their eyes. Conversation pieces for comic relief. A specious segment bemoaning our lack of accurate intelligence on where or how the hammerhead mates. Mind your own business – is what I say – they don’t come over to watch you wank, leave them alone, to fuck in peace.
  ‘Show us a fish. Please. Just one!’ Shouted sharp at the TV screen where a nautical Frenchman strums a guitar, bravely shaving and waxing his beard on some sun-decked bankrolled businessman’s boat while discussing the document stratégique de façade of a multi-million franc maritime mission.
  That hardy khaki safari explorer tirelessly observing those needy natives unpacking the whiteman’s yashmak yurt from his luxury Land Rover; setting up camp, nice and neat, clean and cosy.
  Arctic expeditioners in crucial conference with city stockbrokers; sponsored bitching through ice and snow; promo-projecting anthropological benefit, might find a frozen body or two... My sacrifice.
  Exclusive pointless record-breakers; one-legged, oxygen-less, youngest, highest, fastest, topless – by swaggering spinners on charity jaunts.
  Watching a film on some billions-selling artist. Listening to their garrulous great grand-niece philosophising on art and existence, “Vincent, who died a hundred years before my birth, was a great family man and bought his pies from this local shop… which only I know all about. I have not had to work one minute of my life thanks to some papers left in our attic, and never will. Ha!”
  Random eighteen-year-old doctors, professors, rear vice-admirals marching around those Grecian beaches drippy dressed in replica Roman rank regalia, had helped hand-make in some Shoreditch studio; relating their feelings for Alexander’s jockstrap as metaphor of the refugee’s cause. Love to be seen cool commentating while guiding some enormous brightly-coloured car through Europe or America – look at me grown-up driving left-handed! If they’ve got a tattoo it’ll show for sure. Card contracted to be in every shot, their name crammed into the trumpeted title – for my pitiful Public. Running plundered newsreels and OU broadcasts from the nineteen sixties; recycling those images with cod-cast, counterfeit observations. Dim dumbed down. Yo regional accents. The children of toffs need to understand it’s vowels that expose your actual accent, not the consonants. Why not speak naturally? as learned at school; you don’t sound even slightly street by dropping your t’s with ‘f’ for ‘th’; you sound, in fact, like a fibbing fool.
  And that Caledonian kilted cock. Legs apart stood on a country clifftop stalwart surveying some airbrushed loch; his massive nose with nostrils flaring, moody mane blowing in the bolden breeze, ‘This is MY Scotland!’ What a cunt.
  Tomorrow’s World? Articles, movies, magazine features extolling our marvellous coming technology; copulating robots, shuttles to Mars, bulletproof skin – in some arch obsession with the distant future. Why be concerned with an incidental something you or your kids will never witness? Maybe as excuse for avoiding involvement in what’s happening now; and having to do something about it?