Poets’ Corner After Dark

INT. WESTMINSTER ABBEY’S SOUTH TRANSEPT – MIDNIGHT

Moonlight filters through stained glass windows amongst the statues and busts of Poets’ Corner.

A loud creak. Geoffrey CHAUCER, a bronze statue, stretches and yawns, his metal joints groaning.

CHAUCER: By the great quill of destiny, what hour be this? Midnight? Time flies when one is petrified.

Nearby, William SHAKESPEARE, carved in marble, rubs his forehead dramatically.

SHAKESPEARE: To wake or not to wake – alas, the question answers itself! I feel a cramp in my heroic couplets.

Charles DICKENS, his bust high on a pedestal, speaks with a grumble.

DICKENS: If anyone thinks I’ll write another serial after this, they’re gravely mistaken. I’ve spent decades staring at pigeons. It’s intolerable!

Jane AUSTEN’s stone figure comes to life.

AUSTEN: And yet, men will complain, even when dead. Can we focus? Why are we waking up tonight?

CHAUCER: Methinks the moon shines brighter on this eve. ‘Tis a summons from the Muses! Or possibly the Abbey wi-fi acting up again.

Lord BYRON saunters in dramatically, wearing his perpetual stone smirk.

BYRON: (mockingly) Ah, the gang’s all here. Chaucer, the dusty relic; Shakespeare, the eternal show-off; and Dickens, the poster boy for misery. Truly, a cavalcade of brilliance.

AUSTEN: (ignored) Hello?

DICKENS: Oh, look, it’s Byron, the original influencer. What’s the matter? No one liked your latest tragic sonnet?

BYRON: I don’t need “likes”, Charles. My despair is timeless. Unlike your serialised sob stories.

John KEATS and Percy Bysshe SHELLEY drift in, looking lost.

KEATS: (to Byron) Um, hello. Is this… the afterlife’s book club?

SHELLEY: Keats, I told you, stop asking. Byron’s not in charge – he just acts like it.

Jane Austen steps forward, brushing dust off her stone gown.

AUSTEN: We’re supposed to be inspiring the living, not squabbling like characters in a poorly written farce.

SHAKESPEARE: (indignant) Poorly written? Madam, I invented farce! And tragedy, for that matter.

AUSTEN: Yes, we’ve noticed. We all have to hear about it, endlessly.

BYRON: Come, Miss Austin – trade me your sharp quill for softer pursuits; wit may warm my mind, but only passion can set it ablaze.

AUSTEN: Lord Byron, your passions burn so bright they most frequently extinguish themselves – do let me know when one lasts long enough to cast a steady light.

A faint humming noise grows. The Abbey’s speakers start playing an audiobook. The poets gasp in horror as an AI voice reads a modern romance novel.

AUDIOBOOK NARRATOR: (O.S.) He gazed into her eyes, his chiselled jaw trembling with passion…

Byron claps his hands over his ears.

BYRON: What fresh hell is this?

AUDIOBOOK NARRATOR: (O.S.) Rain fell in slow motion, though neither of them got wet, because love is waterproof.

AUSTEN: Modern romance. Quite popular, actually.

AUDIOBOOK NARRATOR: (O.S.) "I’ve never felt this way before," he whispered huskily, his voice thick with a past he’d never fully explain.

SHAKESPEARE: Chiselled jaws? Trembling passion? I’d sooner see my plays were rewritten as musicals!

Chaucer waves his arms to get attention. The audiobook stops.

CHAUCER: Quiet, all! Methinks we must intervene. The living have clearly lost their literary way.

DICKENS: Yes! Let us haunt the publishers until they restore proper storytelling. No more sparkling vampires or billionaire love triangles!

AUSTEN: Or, we could just give them… guidance. Perhaps they’re not all lost causes.

BYRON: (smirking) Speak for yourself. I’d rather haunt Instagram.

As the poets argue, a security GUARD enters, holding a torch. The beam of light freezes everyone mid-motion. For a moment, they look like statues again. The guard scratches his head.

GUARD: (muttering) Blimey, I need to cut back on the night shifts. Thought I saw Shakespeare wink at me.

The guard leaves, muttering about getting coffee. As soon as the door shuts, the poets burst into laughter.

SHAKESPEARE: Winking? A tragedy I didn’t invent earlier!

AUSTEN: Let’s focus. If we’re going to inspire, we need to reach the world. But how?

A moment of silence.

CHAUCER: TikTok?

The others groan in unison.

SHAKESPEARE: How about…?

Shakespeare starts scribbling with an invisible quill. The other poets join in, creating ethereal manuscripts that float in the air. Byron spends most of his time striking poses.

AUSTEN: Okay… (reading) We, the spirits of Poets’ Corner, call upon you, dear writers, to elevate your craft! Write with wit, depth, and meaning!

DICKENS: And no clichés! If I see one more “chosen one” narrative, I shall weep.

SHELLEY: (excitedly) Let’s send it out on the wind! A ghostly manuscript carried by the night air.

BYRON: Or, Shelley… we could just leave it in the gift shop.

They all pause. Byron shrugs.

As dawn approaches, the poets resume their statuesque forms, ready to inspire from their silent vigil once more.

INT. THE GIFT SHOP – DAY

The next day, a TOURIST picks up the mysterious manuscript and chuckles.

TOURIST: “A Declaration from the Poets of Westminster Abbey?” Must be some clever marketing.

The tourist pockets it away. Meanwhile, in Poets’ Corner, Shakespeare’s statue winks.

The Diary of Aurelia Windmere

Date: 16th July 1347
Location: The City of Florence

The plague has arrived, they say, riding the wind from faraway lands. I should be frightened, but curiosity holds me tighter than fear. The healers speak of “bad air” and demons, while merchants mutter about God’s wrath. I’ve spent the morning sketching remedies in the marketplace—garlic necklaces, amulets, and crucifixes. But I am not afraid. Not yet. After all, how long can I linger here before the threads of time call me elsewhere?

Date: 14th February 1854
Location: Aboard the RMS Titania

The passengers are abuzz with excitement about the new world waiting for us in America. I have taken to wearing a corset to blend in, though I despise the restriction.

I spent the afternoon sketching the machinery in the engine room, marvelling at how this era’s technology seems both primitive and ingenious. The captain invited me to dine at his table tonight. I wonder what he would say if he knew I had seen his ship displayed in a maritime museum centuries later, reduced to a scale model and a placard.

Date: 4th November 1929
Location: New York City, USA

The crash was only last week, but the city already feels like a graveyard. I watched men in suits weep on Wall Street, their fortunes scattered like confetti. I’ve taken to sitting in speakeasies, listening to jazz that vibrates with desperation and defiance. The music is a spark in the gloom.

Tonight, I met a man named Louis, a saxophonist who played as though the world wasn’t crumbling around him. “Music,” he said, “is how we keep time from swallowing us whole.” I didn’t tell him how literal those words are for me.

Date: 12th October 2156
Location: Astro Colony Alpha

The Earth is just a blue dot in the distance, almost too small to remember. Here, life is regimented: five hours of work, three hours of recreation, then lights out. I tried to ask the Overseer about the forests and rivers back on Earth, but he looked at me like I was malfunctioning. It seems humanity traded nature for the cold precision of metal and glass.

Still, the stars are beautiful here—so close, they feel like they might burn through the dome and swallow us whole. Tonight, I sneaked out to watch the constellations. For a moment, I thought I saw an ancient ship, its sails catching the light of a thousand suns.

Date: 11th November 2377
Location: The Edge of the Andromeda Galaxy

The starship hums around me, its walls alive with glowing circuits. We’ve just crossed into uncharted space, the crew jubilant despite the vast emptiness stretching before us. The captain invited me to the observation deck, where we gazed at a nebula swirling in hues of violet and gold.

I’ve seen Earth’s history unfold, but this moment feels different—like the future itself is holding its breath. What will humanity become out here, so far from home? The stars don’t answer. They simply watch, as they always have.

Date: 3rd April 3012
Location: Neo-Atlantis

The city floats above the waves, its spires glinting with sunlight filtered through the ocean’s surface. Neo-Atlantis is humanity’s refuge after the rising seas claimed the continents. The people here speak a hybrid language—snippets of English, Mandarin, and an electronic hum I can’t decipher. They wear clothes made of shimmering bio-fabric, which shifts colours with their emotions.

Today, I visited the archives, where holograms of old cities are displayed like relics. London, Paris, Cairo—all submerged, their histories reduced to flickering lights. I wondered if anyone here remembers what it was like to walk on solid ground.

Date: Unknown
Location: The Fractured Reality

The air here is thick with colours that do not exist in any other timeline. Shadows move without bodies, speaking secrets in languages that bypass the ears and sink straight into the mind. I do not know how I arrived here, only that the usual rules of time and space have ceased to apply.

I found a clock suspended in midair, its hands moving backwards. Beneath it, a sign reads: “Here lies the lost moment”. For the first time in my travels, I feel untethered. I am not sure I want to stay, but I am also reluctant to leave.

Date: Unknown
Location: The Library at the Edge of Time

I’ve found it at last—a place I’d only heard whispering through the cracks of history. The library exists on the edge of time, its halls stretching infinitely in every direction. Books, scrolls, and tablets fill the shelves, containing every story ever told and untold. I wandered along a path through its halls before finding a desk with a blank book waiting for me.

The ink flows effortlessly as I write these words, as if the library itself is recording my journey. Am I the first to find this place? Surely not. But I feel at home here, among the echoes of eternity.

Resolutions

I will aim to be more physical in 2025. I would like to live more through connection to full-body presence than static thinking.

Viewing social media is addictive but doesn’t make me feel good, so I will aim to not look at it much. I think that, for me personally, it can pollute and over-stimulate my mind, and often distracts me from better ways to live.

I have a list of ten life areas I aim to attend to each day. The balance of attention can change according to the events of the day, and the outcomes, if I focus on where I am and what I am doing, can look after themselves.

I will aim to write down my thoughts and actions rather than loop in my head on issues and imagined future scenarios.

I would like to be more of a fully functioning human being this year. I would like to help. If possible, I would like real, genuine human connection.

Off the Menu

INT. RESTAURANT – EVENING

A restaurant is moderately busy. A customer, REGINALD, sits at a table with a menu, tapping it rhythmically with a fork. The WAITER approaches with a polite smile.

WAITER: Good evening, sir. Have you decided what you’d like?

REGINALD: Yes, indeed. I’ll start with an amuse-bouche.

WAITER: Certainly. We have –

REGINALD: I’ll have a single kumquat stuffed with wasabi and garnished with edible gold leaf.

WAITER: I’m afraid we don’t have kumquats, sir. Or edible gold leaf.

REGINALD: No kumquats? In this economy? Fine, I’ll settle for a pickled ostrich egg, sliced thinly, served on a single lotus leaf.

WAITER: We don’t have ostrich eggs either, sir.

REGINALD: All right, let’s move on. For the main course, I’ll have… hmm… an elk steak, medium-rare, infused with truffle oil, and a side of glow-in-the-dark mashed potatoes.

WAITER: Glow-in-the-dark – ? Sir, I don’t believe that’s a thing.

REGINALD: (offended) Not a thing? I had it just last week in Piccadilly. Or was it a dream? Never mind, I’ll take a roasted dodo.

WAITER: A… dodo?

REGINALD: Yes, dodo. The extinct bird. They’re quite tender, I hear.

WAITER: Sir, they’ve been extinct for centuries.

REGINALD: So your restaurant isn’t sustainable, then? Disappointing.

WAITER: Perhaps something from the actual menu?

REGINALD: Fine, fine. For dessert, I’ll have a soufflé made with unicorn milk.

WAITER: Sir, unicorns don’t exist. May I recommend the chocolate cake? It’s very popular.

REGINALD: Cake? How pedestrian. Fine, but only if you flambé it at the table while reciting poetry.

WAITER: Poetry?

REGINALD: Byron, preferably. Or Shelley, if you’re in the mood.

WAITER: I’ll… see what I can do.

REGINALD: Splendid. Oh, and a drink. Bring me water. But not just any water. It must be glacier water, melted under the light of a full moon.

WAITER: Tap water, then?

REGINALD: If you must. But chill it with artisanal ice cubes.

WAITER: Artisanal ice cubes?

REGINALD: Hand-carved by a monk. Preferably one with a beard.

WAITER: I need a new job.

The waiter walks off, muttering, as Reginald begins inspecting his fork with great intensity.

Christmas Game

Congratulations on purchasing Ultra-Vortex Cheeseboard Frenzy! This game, banned in 32 countries and heralded as “unplayable” by 8 out of 10 philosophers, combines strategy, physics, absurdity, and a deep understanding of 14th-century French dairy law.

Prepare yourself for a multi-dimensional showdown of wit, patience, and vaguely cheese-related mishaps. Warning: Side effects may include confusion, existential dread, and mild brie cravings.

Components

      1.   The Board: A holographic hexagonal grid that shifts unpredictably with each turn. It includes:

        •  Cheese Nebula Zone (centre): Where hopes go to die.

        •  Portal Nodes: Scattered randomly (re-roll their locations every 3 rounds).

        •  Void of Emmental Despair: Any token landing here is banished forever.

      2.   Tokens:

        •  4 Cheese Wedges per player (each wedge is equipped with a mood ring to reflect its “quantum temperament”).

        •  2 Anti-Cheese Sporks (sporks, because spoons are passé).

        •  1 Schrödinger’s Hamster (optional expansion pack required).

        •  5 Temporal Mice per player, each named after a European philosopher.

      3.   Dice:

        •  A standard d6.

        •  A d12 inscribed with ancient runes (translate using Appendix Zeta).

        •  A d100 the size of a grapefruit. If it rolls under the sofa, all players must immediately freeze in place until the hamster token retrieves it.

      4.   Cards:

        •  72 Quantum Rift Cards.

        •  40 Cheese Subtype Modifier Cards (e.g., “Camembert of Destruction,” “Cheddar of Betrayal”).

        •  1 Black Hole Cheese Card (DO NOT TOUCH).

      5.   Miscellaneous:

        •  One Wheel of Feta spinner (use only during an odd-numbered round).

        •  A small bell (used to summon the Interdimensional Cheese Council).

        •  The Emergency Gouda Token (break glass only when truly desperate).

Setup

      1.   Board Placement:

        •  Unfold the board carefully. If it folds itself back up, do not panic—this is normal. Unfold it again.

        •  Randomly place Portal Nodes by rolling the d12 and consulting the Astral Cheeseboard Alignment Chart. If the chart catches fire, consult a priest.

      2.   Determine Player Roles:

        •  Assign one player the role of High Cheese Regent. This is decided by a “Cheese Duel,” which involves balancing a cheese wedge on your head while reciting the full text of Beowulf.

        •  The player with the least knowledge of dairy becomes the Keeper of the Sporks.

      3.   Token Distribution:

        •  Each player receives 4 Cheese Wedges, 5 Temporal Mice, and 1 Anti-Cheese Spork. The High Cheese Regent starts with the Emergency Gouda Token but must wear an oven mitt on their dominant hand for the first three turns.

        •  Place Schrödinger’s Hamster in the Cheese Nebula Zone. It exists and does not exist simultaneously until activated.

      4.   Initial Card Draw: Each player draws 2 Quantum Rift Cards, 1 Cheese Subtype Modifier Card, and a fortune-telling card from any tarot deck you have lying around.

Gameplay

Each game is divided into 12½ Temporal Cycles, with each cycle consisting of 5 Phases. Proceed in clockwise order unless the board is in a quantum flux state, in which case reverse direction while humming Greensleeves.

Phase 1: Invocation of the Cheese Spirits

      1.   All players chant, “BRIE OR NOT TO BRIE, THAT IS THE QUESTION!”

      2.   Roll the d12 to determine which player is blessed by the Spirits of Dairy this turn. Blessed players may immediately move one Temporal Mouse into a Portal Node of their choosing.

Phase 2: Quantum Cheese Allocation

      1.   Each player rolls the d100.

        •  If the result is a multiple of 7, draw a Cheese Subtype Modifier Card.

        •  If the result is prime, gain 3 “Dairy Points.”

        •  If the result is 42, all players must bow to the High Cheese Regent.

      2.   Players may spend “Dairy Points” to move their Cheese Wedges or purchase an Anti-Cheese Spork upgrade.

Phase 3: Portal Manipulation

      1.   Spin the Wheel of Feta. The result determines which Portal Nodes are “active.”

      2.   If Schrödinger’s Hamster is in play, roll the d6 to decide whether it eats a cheese wedge, causes a time paradox, or simply stares at everyone judgmentally.

Phase 4: Cheese Combat

      1.   Players may challenge others to a duel using their Temporal Mice.

        •  Each player rolls the d12 and adds their Cheese Resonance Score (tracked using the Mood Rings of Quantum Balance).

        •  The loser must surrender one Cheese Wedge or perform an interpretive dance of defeat.

Phase 5: Reckoning

      1.   Draw a Quantum Rift Card and follow its instructions. These may include:

        •  Swapping Cheese Wedges with another player.

        •  Opening a vortex to the Void of Emmental Despair.

        •  Summoning the Interdimensional Cheese Council, which requires all players to argue passionately about the best type of cheese for at least 3 minutes.

      2.   Resolve any remaining effects from previous turns, such as mousenados, black holes, or unresolved grudges.

Winning the Game

The game ends when any of the following occurs:

      1.   A player accumulates exactly 100 Dairy Points.

      2.   The Black Hole Cheese Card is drawn, causing reality to implode.

      3.   All players unanimously agree to abandon the game out of sheer bewilderment.

The winner is crowned Supreme Cheese Emperor of Space-Time and is entitled to free cheese-themed puns for life.

Good luck, brave soul. You’re going to need it.

New Years

I'm sorry for the dreams I fled,

When I should’ve stayed and loved instead.

I'm sorry for the dreams I marred,

The tender hopes my silence scarred.

I'm sorry for the broken past,

Let’s find a way to heal at last.

Change begins within,

Where love lets life begin.

With hope, let’s breathe the dawn,

And live the year reborn;

Wipe away the tears of past mistakes,

Renew the vow that courage makes.

The Art of Synergy

Right, good morning, team! Isn’t it just a great day to synergise? To streamline? To… innovate? You can feel the energy in this room, can’t you? Absolutely electric. As your line manager of Interdepartmental Synergy and Workflow Coordination, it’s my duty, my honour, to keep this ship sailing smoothly.

Now, I’ve been reflecting. Reflecting on how we can work smarter harder. And that’s why today, I am thrilled to announce the launch of the Efficiency Enhancement Initiative, or as I like to call it… The Big E.E.I. What is it, you ask? Well, it’s about improving our processes to… uh… ensure smoother workflows. Enhancing efficiencies, optimising our optimisations, streamlining our… streamlining. Simple, really.

As part of The Big E.E.I., I’ll be hosting something very exciting this afternoon: a Preliminary Pre-Brainstorming Session. Yes, you heard that correctly—a session where we prepare for next week’s main pre-meeting. Some might ask, “Why not just… have the meeting?” But that would miss the point entirely. Preparation is key. In this session, we’ll be discussing… what we’ll be discussing in the next session. It’s genius, really. Layers of productivity.

And tomorrow? Oh, tomorrow is the big one. The Synergy Alignment Forum. Not just a meeting, mind you—a forum. It’s where ideas are born, nurtured, and allowed to thrive within the safe confines of… well, our current strategies. This week’s theme? Brace yourselves for this one: “Thinking Outside the Box While Staying Inside the Box.” Brilliant, isn’t it? It’s innovation, but with boundaries. You can think big, but only as big as the parameters I’ve already approved. That’s what I call vision.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. “Colin, haven’t we done this all before?” And to that, I say, yes—but not with this level of… synergy. Last week, for instance, we made an enormous breakthrough during our font selection workshop. Remember that? Four hours of collaboration, and we finally settled on Arial. Sleek, dynamic, versatile. And, yes, I know it was the default font, but isn’t that the beauty of efficiency? Sometimes, the answers are right in front of us.

You see, the work we do here is vital. Take Derek, for example. What’s he working on? Spreadsheets, probably. Or HR. Or… something to do with synergy. Whatever it is, it’s important, and that’s what matters. And Sophie—brilliant Sophie—always ahead of the curve with her status reports. Although I do wish she’d resend them; I tend to skim emails these days. Efficiency, you see. Why read everything when you can read enough?

But let’s not forget the bigger picture. This isn’t just an office. No, no, no—this is a well-oiled machine, a hive of activity, a… a synergy factory. Look at you all, working tirelessly. Some might say, “Colin, what do you actually do?” And to that, I say, I facilitate. I motivate. I innovate. I coordinate synergy across interdepartmental workflows. And isn’t that what leadership is all about?

Right, I think that covers everything. Time for my mid-morning coffee. Keep up the good work, team. Remember: think outside the box, but not too far outside. Let’s keep those boundaries nice and tidy. Efficiency is key, after all.

The Society Within

INT. DIMLY LIT MEDIEVAL MEETING CHAMBER – NIGHT

A mismatched group of people sit around a long table, all wearing hoods and robes. The Protagonist (let’s call him ALEX) nervously fiddles with a candle as the others chant monotonously.

LEADER #1: (solemnly) And thus, by the power vested in me, as Grand Keeper of the Lesser Secrets, I welcome you, ALEX, into the hallowed halls of The Society of Shadows.

ALEX: (awkwardly) Thank you. It’s… such an honour.

LEADER #1: Shhh! We don’t say “thank you” here. It’s forbidden. Instead, you say, “The bat flies at midnight.”

ALEX: Right, of course. The bat flies at midnight.

LEADER #1: Excellent. Now, as your first duty, you must guard the sacred candle of eternity.

ALEX: (holds candle) This candle?

LEADER #1: No, the sacred candle.

ALEX: Right. And, um… what does the Society of Shadows actually do?

LEADER #1: We are the silent guardians of the unspoken truths.

ALEX: Okay, but… what does that mean?

LEADER #1: Mostly we just meet here on Tuesdays. Sometimes we rearrange traffic cones to spell “danger”.

ALEX: (doubtful) That’s… very noble.

LEADER #1: And remember, this is the only secret society that truly matters.

A bookcase suddenly swings open, revealing a hidden room.

VOICE FROM HIDDEN ROOM: Oh, for heaven’s sake, stop telling people that! You’re not even a real society!

Alex is dragged by robed figures into the hidden room, where the Society of Eternal Whispers is gathered. They’re all wearing identical robes, but these ones are purple.

LEADER #2: Welcome to the real secret society.

ALEX: There’s… another one?

LEADER #2: Of course! Did you think that façade was real? How naïve. This is the Society of Eternal Whispers.

ALEX: What do you whisper about?

LEADER #2: (loudly whispering) Everything.

ALEX: (leans in) Like what?

LEADER #2: (louder) Stop asking questions!

ALEX: (mutters) You’re not very good at being secret.

LEADER #2: (not hearing the comment) You are one of us now. Your first task is to prove your loyalty by reciting the Pledge of Eternal Subtlety.

ALEX: Fine. What is it?

LEADER #2: (grabs a scroll) Repeat after me: “I shall live in shadows, walk in whispers, and never wear yellow.”

ALEX: Why can’t I wear yellow?

LEADER #2: Because yellow doesn’t really coordinate well with purple. Now repeat!

ALEX: (resigned) I shall live in shadows, walk in whispers, and never wear yellow.

LEADER #2: (smirks) Perfect. You are now one of us.

Another bookcase swings open. Everyone groans.

VOICE FROM NEW HIDDEN ROOM: (mocking) Oh, look at you, so subtle. Real subtle, with your purple robes and dramatic whispers.

Alex is pulled by more robed figures into the next room, where the Society of Infinite Layers meets. They wear gold-trimmed robes and are eating biscuits.

LEADER #3: Welcome to the actual secret society.

ALEX: (exasperated) How many of these are there!?

LEADER #3: We’re the Society of Infinite Layers. We’ve been infiltrating the infiltrators for centuries.

ALEX: Do any of you actually do anything?

LEADER #3: How dare you! We’re responsible for all of society’s greatest advancements.

ALEX: Like what?

LEADER #3: (proudly) Biscuits. We standardised the size of biscuits in 1874.

ALEX: That’s it?

LEADER #3: And we control the national stockpile of custard creams.

ALEX: (mutters) That explains why they’re always out of stock.

LEADER #3: (ignoring Alex) Now, to prove yourself, you must complete our sacred task.

ALEX: (sighs) Let me guess. Something pointless?

LEADER #3: (offended) Not pointless! You must solve a Rubik’s cube in a tastefully darkened room while reciting the periodic table.

Before Alex can begin, another bookcase hidden door opens, revealing an elderly man sitting alone in a minimalist room.

LEADER #4: Don’t bother with that. Come in. You’ve reached the Ultimate Society.

The members of the Society of Infinite Layers tut their disapproval, as Alex enters the latest hidden room.

ALEX: (sceptical) Are you absolutely sure?

LEADER #4: Yes. I am the secret head of all secret societies.

ALEX: (relieved) Finally! So, what’s the ultimate secret?

LEADER #4: (leans in) The secret is… (pauses for dramatic effect) there is no secret.

ALEX: What? So you’re telling me I went through three ridiculous societies for nothing?

LEADER #4: Oh, it’s not for nothing. (hands Alex a biscuit) Have a custard cream.

Accountancy Jokes

What’s an accountant’s least favourite drink?

Anything that doesn’t come with a receipt.

What do accountants say when they’re shocked?

“That’s a significant variance!”

What do accountants sing on New Year’s Eve?

“Should old accounts be reconciled...”

What do accountants name their cats?

Cash and Flow.

What do accountants name their dogs?

Debit and Credit.

What’s an accountant’s favourite film?

“Return of the Journal Entry”. 

What do accountants write in love letters?

“You’ve increased the value of my assets.”

What’s an accountant’s favourite fairy tale?

Goldilocks and the Three Balance Sheets.

What’s an accountant’s favourite board game?

Risk — it helps them manage their capital exposure.

Jokey Thoughts

My coworker said they work better under pressure, so I started sending them emails with the subject line: “URGENT: THE WORLD IS ENDING.” Productivity hasn’t improved.

I saw a trailer for a new superhero movie. It’s about a guy who gets bitten by a radioactive sloth. His superpower? Extreme patience.

The Dark Ages weren’t really dark. That’s just what happens when a historian writes the story without paying the electricity bill.

My ex said, “You’ll never find someone like me.” I said, “That’s the point.”

I told my goldfish a joke. He just stared at me like he’d heard it before. I guess I need new material.

Old Friends

INT. A QUIET CAFÉ – DAY

STEVE (in his 40s, slightly dishevelled) is sitting at a corner table with a coffee and a half-eaten croissant. The door opens with the sound of an eerie wind, though nobody else in the café reacts. Enter DEATH, wearing a classic black robe, but with sunglasses perched on his bony nose and a cup of takeaway coffee in hand. He approaches Steve, who looks up in confusion.

DEATH: (cheerily) Ah, there you are! It’s been a while. How’ve you been?

STEVE: Sorry, do I know you?

DEATH: (mocking offence) Do you know me? Oh, come on. After everything we’ve been through? All the near misses? The times you dodged me like we’re in some sort of game of tag?

STEVE: You must have me confused with someone else. I don’t think we’ve met.

DEATH: (laughs) Oh, please. It’s me. Death. You know… The Death. Big D. Grim Reaper. Ringing any bells?

STEVE: (staring) Death? As in… Death?

DEATH: Bingo. I mean, you’ve seen my work. Not to brag, but I’m kind of a legend.

STEVE: Okay… um, what do you want?

DEATH: (sitting down uninvited) Oh, you know, the usual. Bit of a catch-up. Quick chat before we get down to business.

STEVE: (panicking slightly) Business? What business?

DEATH: (ignoring him, takes a sip of coffee) So, what did you mess up this time? Honestly, it’s inspiring the skill you have at that sort of thing.

STEVE: (spluttering) I haven’t messed up anything! I’m just sitting here having a coffee. What are you talking about?

DEATH: (dramatically sighs) Honestly, you’re impossible to keep track of. One minute you’re climbing dodgy ladders, the next you’re crossing motorways like you’ve got a death wish – oh wait, that’s my department. (chuckles)

STEVE: Wait a second. Are you saying I’ve… dodged you?

DEATH: Oh, several times! And not even in cool, action-hero ways. That time you choked on a peanut at the zoo? Classic. I was ready with the scythe, but no, here comes some stranger with the Heimlich manoeuvre. Rude.

STEVE: That’s not my fault! I didn’t ask to choke! Or to be saved!

DEATH: (leaning back) Well, no one asks for these things, mate. But you’re a regular Houdini. So, what’s it today? Heart attack? Falling sign? Spontaneous combustion? Don’t keep me in suspense.

STEVE: (growing desperate) Nothing! I’m perfectly fine. Healthy as ever! No signs, no combustion. Look, is this some kind of joke?

DEATH: (ignoring him) Right, anyway, let’s move this along, shall we? Any regrets? Unfinished business? That time you pretended you were sick to avoid your cousin’s wedding – you want me to apologise to her on your behalf?

STEVE: How did you – look, this is ridiculous. I’m not dying today!

DEATH: That’s what you said last Tuesday when you thought it was a good idea to microwave an egg.

STEVE: Look, I don’t know who – or what – you are, but I’m not ready to go anywhere with you. You’ve got the wrong guy.

DEATH: (calmly sipping his coffee) Huh. Bold words. You know, I get that a lot. “Not ready, wrong guy, I’m too young.” (sighs) You humans act like I’m some sort of telemarketer. It’s a bit hurtful.

STEVE: Maybe because you show up uninvited and start scaring people?

DEATH: (offended) Scaring? I’m delightful! I bring closure! Peace! And, occasionally, free coffee. (gestures to his cup) Speaking of, I got this from that new café down the street. Lovely macchiato. Shame you never got to try it.

STEVE: (panicking again) What? Why not?

DEATH: Oh, relax. I’m just messing with you. Not your time. Yet.

STEVE: (exasperated) You can’t just waltz in here, make me think I’m about to die, and then say “just kidding!”

DEATH: Why not? Keeps things spicy. Anyway, I’ll let you get back to your coffee. But seriously, maybe avoid tall ladders for a while. Just a hunch.

STEVE: Great. Now Death gives DIY advice.

DEATH: (heading towards the door) Hey, I’m looking out for you. Sort of. Catch you later…

The Art of Rhetoric

Good afternoon, everyone. Thank you for gathering here today. I must say, it is most agreeable to see all of you here, sitting in your respective seats, as one does.

Now, as I stand here, I find myself compelled to speak at length on a topic of importance: office supply procurement procedures. Yes, today we shall dive into the depths of stapler requisition forms and the fascinating, nearly unbearable intricacies of paperclip ordering. I shall endeavour to explain to you, in as much detail as possible, how and why a process that could be simple has instead been made magnificently, astoundingly, breathtakingly complex.

Some of you might be wondering, “Why does it matter whether we have blue or black biros?” An excellent question. Indeed, a very good question indeed—I spent upwards of sixty-seven minutes this morning pondering the same. However, I’m afraid I’m not in a position to provide a definitive answer. Suffice it to say that both have their merits. Blue pens evoke a sense of calm, while black pens, on the other hand, suggest a certain authority. Either way, whether you’re taking notes on something important or simply doodling, rest assured, both options are available to you.

I would like to take a moment to address the recent changes in our paper supplier. As you may be aware, our usual brand of A4 printer paper was out of stock for three days last month, and we had to switch to an alternative. I know some of you felt the new paper was slightly thinner, slightly different, almost undetectably unlike the usual stock. This raised some eyebrows, and I want to acknowledge your concerns. I personally spent several hours comparing the old paper to the new, and I can confirm: yes, there is a barely perceptible difference. However, feedback from the Paper Committee remains inconclusive.

Now, let’s talk about the issue of folder categorisation. You see, after much consideration and an extensive review process, it has been decided that all folders will henceforth be filed according to the second letter of their labels, not the first. Yes, this decision was not made lightly. It required no fewer than seven meetings, and multiple subcommittees were formed. I won’t bore you with the finer points of the deliberation—although I could, if you wish—but the upshot is that we believe the new system will bring a semblance of mild, almost negligible, efficiency to our filing cabinets.

Moving on to another highlight: I am pleased to report that our new policy on tea bag usage has officially passed. We are now asking that everyone limit themselves to one teabag per two cups. This may seem revolutionary, even radical, but studies have shown that a single teabag can be reused. And for those of you who might wonder about milk ratios, please note that no more than 2.3 tablespoons of milk per cup is now advised, a decision that took the better part of last week to reach.

Please feel free to review the accompanying documents during this initial 4-hour presentation. There will be time for questions at the end.

A Technological Landscape

Wireless energy, once a theory, has enabled humanity to abandon traditional power grids; energy is beamed from orbiting solar satellites down to Earth. People no longer carry phones; they use implantable tech that provides real-time access to information, communication, and healthcare diagnostics. A simple thought can summon a holographic interface that hovers in mid-air, visible only to the user and vanishing when not in use.

With neural enhancements and immersive virtual reality, couples in long-distance or unconventional relationships can experience a simulated closeness that feels almost as tangible as physical proximity. Holographic communication and sensory interfaces allow people to maintain relationships across vast distances, even fostering bonds with individuals on other planets or space stations, where off-world colonies are emerging.

Learning a new skill, once a laborious process, has been simplified through neural downloads and AI-enhanced tutoring. As technology increasingly integrates with biology—through everything from memory augmentation to body modification—the question of what it means to be “human” has become complex. Some choose to enhance themselves with artificial intelligence implants, while others resist, favouring a life less mediated by technology.

Smart clothing, crafted from fabrics that can cool or insulate as needed, is the norm, replacing the seasonal wardrobe. Buildings, too, have grown adaptable, constructed from “living” materials that respond to temperature and humidity shifts.

With breakthroughs in longevity science, many people live to see several generations of their descendants. Despite advances in lifespan, humanity has not eluded death entirely, though medical technology has pushed its boundaries in remarkable ways.

“Companion bots” manage everyday tasks. With basic needs met by automation, society grapples with questions of purpose and fulfilment. Paid employment is rare, but most humans choose to work in ways that offer fulfilment rather than survival, aided by AI agents that analyse their strengths, interests, and personal needs. Wealth disparities persist, though the poverty once prevalent has been eradicated.

Reproduction has undergone profound changes, enabled by biotechnology. Biological conception is still common, but many couples choose “genetic optimisation,” where embryos are screened for diseases and enhanced for health traits, resilience, or even intelligence. This practice has led to ethical debates over eugenics and the potential homogenisation of the human genome, though strict regulations aim to balance health benefits with the risks of genetic manipulation.

Some parents prefer to have children through advanced methods like in-vitro gametogenesis, where biological material from one or two individuals can be combined to create an embryo without traditional sexual reproduction. This opens up parenthood to single individuals, same-sex couples, or people who might otherwise face reproductive challenges. Companion bot surrogacy has also become more common, allowing people who don’t want to physically bear children to have biological offspring. This technology, while initially controversial, is now widely accepted, with stringent oversight to ensure ethical practices. Some see it as liberating, granting women freedom from the physical demands of pregnancy, while others feel it distances the experience of parenthood from its true, natural roots.

From a current perspective, it’s not unreasonable to view some of these likely developments as unappealing. However, the truly terrifying likely scenario follows, and certain countries in the world today may already be too late to stop some variation of this hell from happening.

In a darker vision, technological progress has been used to engineer an authoritarian nightmare. Surveillance is omnipresent, privacy is a relic of the past, and individual freedom is meticulously curtailed. Here, technology once celebrated for enhancing human potential has become a weapon of oppression, and humans live under constant, invisible scrutiny.

In this dystopian future, every aspect of life is monitored through an interconnected web of devices embedded in every home, public space, and within citizens themselves. Personal data is streamed directly to the system’s central command, an AI-driven supercomputer, which analyses each action, word, and even thought patterns, identifying dissent before it can manifest.

People wear mandatory “compliance implants” implanted at birth, which track physiological responses, monitor brain activity, and assess “loyalty metrics.” These devices make it nearly impossible to think subversively, as even private thoughts register as data points. Every movement, every moment of hesitation, is logged. Even friendships and romantic relationships are tracked, graded, and restricted based on loyalty scores. People may only interact with those whom the central command deems compatible, eliminating any risk of “unsanctioned alliances” that could foster resistance.

In public, holographic screens display reminders of the central command’s omnipotence, broadcasting a constant stream of propaganda that paints life under the regime as peaceful and prosperous. Every building is fitted with facial recognition systems that instantly cross-reference each individual’s identity, loyalty rating, and behavioural history, triggering alarms for anyone showing “deviant patterns” such as prolonged eye contact, lingering in groups, or quiet conversations.

To maintain absolute control, the “Great Leader” has dismantled traditional family structures, considering them breeding grounds for rebellion. Children are removed from their parents at birth, raised in state-run facilities known as “Harmoniums.” These cold, clinical institutions are devoid of love and attachment; they are designed to shape young minds for total obedience. Children are indoctrinated from infancy to view the Great Leader as their only guardian, and any memory of familial bonds is systematically erased.

Romantic relationships, too, are strictly regulated. People are paired through an algorithm that maximises compatibility for loyalty and productivity, with emotional connection considered an unnecessary risk. Conception and reproduction are tightly controlled, often occurring through artificial means, with genetic traits selected to eliminate any proclivity towards independent thinking. Couples live in designated housing blocks and are permitted only minimal interaction, making emotional bonds a rarity, if not outright illegal.

Economic life is dictated by the Great Leader’s concept of “the Duty”—a binding contract that requires every citizen to contribute a precise amount of labour each day to maintain social harmony. Citizens are allocated professions not based on personal aptitude or interest, but rather on loyalty metrics and behavioural compliance. Many work mindlessly in factories, churning out goods for the Great Leader, designed more for spectacle and control than practical function. The system tracks productivity in real time, rewarding only those who meet or exceed quotas with the most basic amenities.

There is no money; instead, citizens earn “compliance credits,” which can be exchanged for essentials like food and housing. Those who fall short, either through underperformance or subversive thought, lose credits, condemning them to a life of deprivation. Compliance credits can even be “banked” as bribes for additional privileges, making them the only way to secure a semblance of comfort. This ensures that everyone’s survival is directly linked to loyalty, creating an economy that thrives on fear and dependency.

Under the Great Leader’s rule, individuality has been systematically erased. Names have been replaced with identification codes, reducing people to numbers in the vast network overseen by the system. Fashion, once an expression of identity, has been standardised into a uniform that strips people of any distinguishing features. Creative expression is outlawed, with music, art, and literature considered dangerous forms of self-expression that could ignite independent thought.

Education, once a pathway to understanding and empowerment, has become a tool of indoctrination. Children learn only the Great Leader’s approved curriculum, which rewrites history, glorifies the regime, and vilifies any form of resistance. Ancient books are banned, with only selected fragments retained in a “curated archive,” where all references to freedom or self-determination have been expunged. Knowledge outside of this prescribed doctrine is punishable by imprisonment or disappearance, ensuring that even the concept of resistance is beyond comprehension for the average citizen.

To maintain the grip on society, reproduction is tightly controlled. Fertility is regulated through genetic manipulation, and only those deemed sufficiently loyal are permitted to have children, often through artificial selection methods that prioritise traits favouring obedience, compliance, and emotional suppression. Infants born without these “loyalty genes” are removed from society, suggesting they are either terminated or repurposed for hard labour.

In this society, there are no parents as traditionally understood. Children are produced in laboratories, with their genetic code “perfected” to match the ideal citizen. Relationships are stripped of intimacy and choice; even the concept of love is discouraged, relegated to relics of a bygone era. Those who dare express love or attachment face “re-education,” a euphemism for a brutal conditioning process that breaks the human spirit and ensures total subjugation.

Humanity’s brightest advances have become its darkest tools of repression. Technology, once meant to connect, empower, and enlighten, has instead shackled society in a nightmare where individuality, love, and freedom have all but vanished. People are stripped of humanity, their every breath and heartbeat monitored by the system.

Public monuments, vast portraits, and broadcasted speeches reinforce the idea that the Great Leader is a single, immortal figure, forever vigilant. The system broadcasts fabricated achievements and victories, glorifying him as the eternal protector. The system perpetuates the myth that the Great Leader possesses supernatural longevity, presenting him as a god-like figure, immune to time and death. But most tragically of all, nobody dares to speculate that the Great Leader died many years ago and was replaced by an AI agent of the system, trained on his behaviours.

I Wandered Worlds

Last night, I wandered worlds within, 

where logic twists and colours spin,

where seas are red and skies are white,

and trees wear leaves of shattered light.

I walked a shore of fallen glass,

each shard a memory from the past—

a flash of laughter, swift and bright,

a lover’s gaze that cut the night.

I climbed a hill that breathed like skin,

its peaks alive, its roots within,

and watched as houses turned to sand,

and clocks dripped hours from my hands.

The air was filled with whispers there,

words that drifted, light as air,

but try to catch them, and they’d fade,

like shadows cast in evening shade.

I saw myself—a stranger’s face,

an outline shifting out of place.

She stared at me with hollow eyes,

half-mad with dreams, half-wise with lies.

And through it all, a humming sound,

an ache, a pull, a tremble found—

as if the earth beneath my feet

was drawn to some unheard heartbeat.

In dreamscapes strange, I drift alone,

in fields where time and space are sown.

When morning pulls, I leave behind

a thousand worlds, just fragments, blind.

Yet as I wake, they cling like dew,

soft traces of a world I knew,

a place unseen by light of day,

where dreams and waking worlds decay.

Humanity, Season 1

Astronomers at the Mount Huxley Observatory had been tracking an unusual radio signal for weeks—an anomaly amidst the usual static of deep space. Initially, they postulated it as some cosmic background noise or the faint trace of a distant pulsar. But then, late one night, the signal changed, becoming too regular, too structured. It was a transmission. A series of strange bursts and frequencies that were too precise to be chance. After days of decoding, what they discovered sent ripples of confusion and excitement through the scientific community.

The signal was a message addressed specifically to a man named Kevin Marsh, a middle-aged accountant living in the quiet suburbs of Stockton-on-Tees.

“Dear Kevin,” the message read, once translated, “We’re huge fans of your work! The way you navigated that tense office argument with Janice last Thursday—brilliant! Such subtle emotional intelligence. Keep up the good work, and don’t worry about Craig, he’s totally going to get what’s coming to him!”

The astronomers were flummoxed. Who was this message from? How could it have travelled across the stars, and why was it so absurdly specific? Who in the universe cared about Kevin Marsh’s office squabbles?

The message was sent to Kevin, who, upon receiving it, reacted with bewilderment, then amusement, assuming it was an elaborate prank. But just as the buzz started to die down, more messages came through. And not just to Kevin—more transmissions arrived at the observatory, each one addressed to a different individual on Earth.

A single mother in Tokyo received an encouraging letter, praising her for her perseverance in raising two children while working long hours at a local market. “The way you handled Kaito’s tantrum yesterday was top-tier parenting!” it read. “We can’t wait to see how you manage the upcoming school interview. You’re a real star!”

A university student in Cape Town was congratulated on passing a difficult exam. “You really had us on the edge of our seats, Taviso!” the message said. “That last-minute essay? Genius. We were rooting for you the whole time!”

The precision of the details was uncanny. The letters referenced personal, intimate moments that couldn’t possibly be known to anyone outside those involved. As more messages arrived from the stars, the realisation slowly began to dawn on humanity: they were being watched from a distant star system, many light-years away from Earth. Some far-advanced civilisation had somehow tuned into Earth like a television broadcast. But not just the grand events—no, these extraterrestrials were obsessed with the mundane, everyday lives of people. To them, Earth was one giant soap opera.

Each day, thousands of new messages would arrive, filled with glowing reviews, emotional support, and the occasional critique.

“Dear Marissa,” one letter read to a barista in Sydney, “we think you’re great, but maybe don’t give up on your art career so quickly. That painting you’re working on? It’s going to be a masterpiece if you just stick with it. We’re really looking forward to the big reveal!”

The more the messages came in, the more Earth’s inhabitants started to perform, knowingly or unknowingly. Arguments were exaggerated, decisions became more dramatic, relationships were played out like intricate plotlines, and every mundane task was suddenly infused with the weight of unseen eyes judging, supporting, and critiquing.

The question, “What will the aliens think?” became a driving force behind everything online. Social media platforms boomed with people posting updates specifically hoping for alien recognition and sponsorship.

And then came the awards. One morning, a particularly impressive message arrived at the Mount Huxley Observatory. It was addressed to all of humanity and bore the encoded signature of the “Galactic Viewership Council”. Inside, the message announced the “First Annual Terra Drama Awards”, celebrating the best moments from Earth’s “performances” over the past year.

A teenager from São Paulo had won the award for “Best Tearjerker” after a particularly emotional breakup. An elderly woman from Scotland won “Best Heroic Act” for saving her neighbour’s dog from a burning house. The biggest award, “Best Main Character,” went to a primary school teacher from India who had unwittingly captivated the alien audience with her everyday kindness and perseverance in the face of life’s challenges. Her acceptance speech, delivered live on social media, was simple: “I didn’t know anyone was watching, but I’m glad if what I did inspired someone.”

The messages kept coming, and with them, a growing sense that humanity’s role in the universe was something far stranger than they had ever imagined. They weren’t just explorers, inventors, or thinkers; they were characters, their lives unfolding in a cosmic drama watched by countless far away aliens. Though they couldn’t see their audience, humanity now lived knowing that somewhere, out in the vastness of space, they had fans. Fans who rooted for them, laughed with them, and cried when they stumbled.

And so, after all the world’s unfolding drama, a question remained: what would the next season bring?

Random Thoughts

2025 is my year of resolution.

My first memory was in bed at night, hearing a fox calling outside by bedroom window.

If you look for problems, you will find them everywhere—you’ll notice the shadows cast by trees instead of the shade they provide, the drops of rain in the air instead of the rainbow forming beyond; you’ll see cracks magnified in solid oak, instead of the vast forests beyond outstretched branches.

I’m falling silent now, within a writing chrysalis. I don’t know if I will re-emerge.

I tend to hang out in dentists these days. It’s how I like to spend my weekends.

Each of us is piece of the puzzle, and together, we create the masterpiece.

Some of life's little jokes:

You've been looking everywhere for something you already have;

You didn't notice what was right in front of you;

You didn't even know that you didn't know.

The Therapist’s Therapist

INT. THERAPHIST’S OFFICE – DAY

THERAPIST: So, what would you like to talk about today?

PATIENT: Well, I’ve been feeling really overwhelmed lately. Work is just… stressful, and –

THERAPIST: Mm-hmm, mm-hmm, overwhelmed, yes. Uh… tell me, does your boss send you passive-aggressive emails at 11 PM, questioning every single decision you’ve ever made in your entire life? Hypothetically speaking.

PATIENT: Um… no, not really. My boss is fine, I guess. It’s more that –

THERAPIST: (sighing heavily) Must be nice. Anyway, sorry, go on. You were saying something about work?

PATIENT: Um… right. So, I’ve been feeling like I’m not good enough, you know? Like, no matter what I do, it’s never enough.

THERAPIST: (nodding vigorously) Oh, I get that. Totally get that. Like, the other day, I spent two hours trying to decide if I should buy a 24-pack or 48-pack of toilet paper. Two hours! Two hours! And in the end, I bought both because I couldn’t make a decision, and now my bathroom looks like a storage unit. What’s wrong with me?

PATIENT: I… don’t think that’s the same thing?

THERAPIST: (laughing nervously) Oh, right! Sorry, let’s focus on you. It’s just, you know… decisions are hard, and sometimes… sometimes you just have to remind yourself that it’s okay to be overwhelmed. You know, like when your entire life feels like it’s unravelling, and you’re constantly questioning if you made the right choices, and –

(suddenly stops and forces a smile)

Anyway, how does that make you feel?

PATIENT: Um… I’m starting to feel like maybe you’re the one who needs a therapist?

THERAPIST: (laughing awkwardly) Ha! Me? Oh, no, no, no. I’m fine! Totally fine. Just a little… stressed, that’s all. I mean, who wouldn’t be after what happened this morning, right?

PATIENT: What happened this morning?

THERAPIST: (leaning forward, suddenly animated) Oh, nothing major. Just spilled an entire cup of coffee on my laptop, lost a week’s worth of therapy notes, and then got a parking ticket because I was too distracted trying to figure out if my cat actually likes me or if he’s just pretending. No big deal. Just… life, you know?

PATIENT: Are you… okay?

THERAPIST: Oh, I’m great. Fantastic, actually. Never better. So let’s get back to you. You’re overwhelmed. You’re struggling with self-worth. And you feel like… like… Sorry, I just had a thought – do you ever wonder if everyone is secretly judging you all the time? Like, you’re at the corner shop, and the cashier is definitely thinking about how weird you look in joggers. Not that I’m projecting or anything.

PATIENT: That sounds like you’re projecting.

THERAPIST: (slightly unhinged) Maybe I am! Who isn’t these days? But let’s keep the focus on you. It’s not about me. It’s about you. You and your perfectly reasonable feelings of inadequacy.

PATIENT: I… don’t know if I want to talk about myself anymore.

THERAPIST: (leaning in, whispering) Do you think my cat is avoiding me?

PATIENT: I’m not sure?

THERAPIST: (nodding) Yeah, that’s what I thought. I’m getting the cold shoulder. He just… he just stares at me, you know? Like he knows something I don’t. Anyway! Back to your issues. (with a forced smile) Tell me more about these work problems. It sounds awful. What was it again?

PATIENT: I was saying I feel like I’m not good enough…

THERAPIST: Yes! Imposter syndrome! A classic. The fear that at any moment someone’s going to pull back the curtain and reveal that you have no idea what you’re doing. I mean, that’s never happened to me, obviously. But I hear it’s common. (panicking slightly) Okay, maybe it has happened to me. Like… every day. But that’s beside the point! So, the trick is to remind yourself that everyone’s just pretending, really. Fake it ‘til you make it. Or, in some cases, fake it even after you’ve made it and hope no one notices. (breaking down a little) Oh, God, am I?

The therapist glances down at their notepad, which has “buy milk” and “schedule therapy for me?” instead of notes about the session.

PATIENT: I really think you should talk to someone.

THERAPIST: I am! I’m talking to you! That counts, right?

PATIENT: I think you might need an actual therapist, though.

THERAPIST: Yeah… yeah, you’re probably right. But, uh, you can book your next session on your way out, okay?

PATIENT: Sure, but are you okay?

THERAPIST: (sighing) Honestly? No. But it’s fine. Everything’s fine. (muttering) If I say it enough times, it’ll become true, right? Anyway, time’s up. Off you trot.

PATIENT: Um… thanks, I guess?

THERAPIST: (staring at the notepad) Yeah, yeah. No problem. Happy to help.

The patient leaves, slightly bewildered but not as overwhelmed as before.

THERAPIST: How do I feel about that?

Nods into the distance, practicing for the next patient.

Social Media News

LONDON—In a stunning victory, social media platforms have officially declared war on the human attention span, defeating it in a record time of just 30 seconds. Experts suggest this rapid conquest may be permanent, leaving entire generations incapable of focusing on anything longer than a TikTok clip or a rage-filled tweet.

Dr Ivan Noodea, a leading expert in digital behaviour and short-form distractions, commented on the news: “The human attention span has been steadily decreasing since the dawn of Instagram filters, but this latest defeat marks a new low. We’ve found that most people now require a new hit of dopamine every 10 seconds or so, ideally in the form of a viral dance trend, a cat doing something cute, or an absolute stranger telling you why you should be angry about something.”

The offensive began with the notorious invention of the “infinite scroll”, a tactical move designed to lure the human brain into a vortex of endless content. By combining pictures of people’s lunches, conspiracy theories, and aggressive advertising for things no one needs, social media created an addictive blend of nonsense that no one can resist.

“I used to read novels,” said Gemma, a 32-year-old Instagram veteran from Manchester, who is currently scrolling through a feed of pumpkin spice latte memes. “Now I can’t even get through a recipe without losing interest and googling why I’m sad all the time.”

Indeed, the results are alarming. Studies indicate that the average user now spends 93% of their waking hours staring at their phone, even while supposedly doing other things like “working”, “spending time with family”, or “driving”. Entire industries are reeling from the impact, with print journalism, bookshops, and any form of content longer than 280 characters suffering immediate extinction.

“You don’t need sentences to communicate anymore,” explained Tim Fellowes, 24, who hasn’t spoken to anyone face-to-face since 2019. “It’s all about the right combination of emojis, memes, and slightly sarcastic captions. If someone posts something, and I don’t immediately respond with a laughing-crying face, I’ve failed as a friend.”

As human attention wanes, a new group of people has risen to fill the vacuum: social media influencers. These individuals, whose primary qualifications include the ability to stare vacantly into ring lights, have now assumed positions of great power. Once mocked for their trivial pursuits, influencers are now regarded as key decision-makers on everything from politics to where you should buy your skincare products.

“I don’t trust politicians,” said Paul, a 28-year-old whose last three purchases were all recommended by influencers with names like @ChillVibesOnly and @PerfectGlowUp. “I only trust people who can unbox things on camera while telling me it’s ‘soooo demure’.”

Indeed, politicians have struggled to keep up with the times. A leaked report suggests that MPs are now taking lessons in TikTok dancing to improve their public image, with early results described as “an unsettling blend of cringe and desperation”.

But not all hope is lost. Social media companies have come forward with their own suggestions for restoring balance, offering helpful advice like: “Maybe try our new feature?” or “Have you seen the latest filter?” With innovations like “enhanced ads” and “suggested content”, designed to further optimise user engagement, it’s clear the battle for human consciousness is far from over. Or perhaps it is, and we’ve all already forgotten to care.

 

Report: Man Takes Bold Step, Actually Turns Off Phone for 15 Minutes Before Nervous Sweats Begin

SHEFFIELD—In what scientists are calling an act of “unprecedented bravery”, 29-year-old Chris Hastings reportedly switched off his smartphone for a full 15 minutes on Tuesday afternoon before experiencing violent shakes, heart palpitations, and a strange sense that he was missing out on something very important happening on Instagram.

“I just wanted to focus for a bit,” Hastings confessed, with hands trembling as he hurriedly recharged his device after the terrifying ordeal. “I thought I could read a book, maybe reflect on life. But then it hit me—I didn’t know if anyone had liked the meme I posted earlier. What if they hadn’t? What if there was an X debate I wasn’t part of? It was all too much.”

Hastings, who regularly “scrolls for a living” and describes himself as a “digital native”, began the experiment at 2:15 PM, with the modest goal of seeing if he could survive without any notifications until 3:00 PM. He made it to approximately 2:30 PM before his body began to reject the unfamiliar silence.

“I wasn’t even sure who I was anymore,” Hastings recounted, still visibly rattled. “Without my phone to tell me what to think or feel, I just started… having thoughts. Like, actual thoughts. I remembered a dream I had in 2004. I briefly wondered whether I should water my plants. That’s when I knew I had to turn my phone back on, or I’d lose myself completely.”

Meanwhile, younger generations are displaying an even more advanced level of social media dependence.

“This is how we vibe,” said Kylie Binoche, a 19-year-old influencer who has 3 million followers despite having no discernible personality traits. “I don’t get why Boomers and Millennials keep talking about ‘having a conversation’. If I can’t send a 15-second video of me pretending to laugh while my face is turned into a puppy, what’s even the point?”

Kylie was later seen dramatically pausing mid-conversation to take 47 identical photos of her half-eaten sushi, before selecting the one with the best lighting for her Instagram story with the caption, “Vibing @Life”.

In a related development, Casebook, once a dominant force in social media, has now officially been declared a museum for the digital habits of “ancient internet cultures.” The platform, now used exclusively by individuals over 40 and mysterious bots selling weight-loss supplements, is expected to offer historical tours in the near future, complete with vintage 2012 memes and screenshots of heated political arguments that no one cared about then and no one remembers now.

Marv Zooverberg, who was recently found experimenting with new ways to look human, stated, “We’re embracing this new direction. Casebook is the perfect place for the elderly to experience nostalgia. We’re adding a new feature where you can send a poke to someone who hasn’t used the platform since 2009, just to confuse them.”

In the wake of social media’s rapid evolution, tech companies are already gearing up for the next big thing: direct infusion. The forthcoming innovation promises to bypass even the need for scrolling—injecting users with pure, unfiltered hits of anxiety whenever an algorithm deems it necessary. “Imagine never having to worry about when to get anxious about engagement or followers again,” explained a spokesperson for MindMelt Technologies. “Just pure, automated anxiety, available with one quick jab.”

Meanwhile, Chris Hastings, now safely back in the glow of his Instagram feed, nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll sign up. But first, I’ve got to check if anyone liked my avocado toast pic.”

Teleprompting

INT. CONFERENCE CENTRE – DAY

A POLITICIAN is standing behind a lectern in a conference centre, presenting a speech to an audience that includes journalists and live television cameras.

POLITICIAN: My fellow citizens, today marks an important day for our nation. Together, we will… uh… (pauses, confused) …bring back… the squirrels?

He glances nervously at the teleprompter, squinting.

POLITICIAN: Uh… sorry, I meant… skills… bring back the skills our economy needs! (laughs awkwardly) Yes, that’s what I was trying to say.

The teleprompter suddenly jumps ahead, skipping lines.

POLITICIAN: And, I promise… uh… that we will… throw a surprise birthday party… for every citizen by 2030?

AUDIENCE MEMBER: (murmuring in the front row) Did he just promise us all a birthday party?

POLITICIAN: (panicking) No, no! What I meant to say was… we will throw our weight behind… job creation! Yes, job creation!

The teleprompter flickers and changes text again.

POLITICIAN: Our plan will bring back industry to the… uh… (squints) …the North Pole?

The politician frantically waves at someone off-stage to fix the teleprompter, but nothing happens.

POLITICIAN: No, no, not the North Pole! The North! Yes, jobs in the north of England. That’s what I meant. Obviously. And I assure you, under my leadership, we will all… do the Macarena and eat lasagne on… rollercoasters?

A few people in the crowd start laughing.

POLITICIAN: Right. Clearly, something’s… gone wrong here. (frantically taps the microphone, pretending it’s the problem) Uh… Let’s move on to more serious issues. I want to talk about our nation’s health service. We must invest in… wait, this can’t be right… fluffy kittens?

AUDIENCE MEMBER 2: (shouting from the back of the room) More kittens for the NHS!

POLITICIAN: (flustered, trying to regain composure) No! What I meant to say is… er, not more kittens! (mutters under his breath) Who’s writing this stuff?

The teleprompter completely malfunctions, scrolling at an impossible speed, flashing random words.

POLITICIAN: (desperately trying to keep up) And together, we will… fry fish… for world peace… by… planting trees on… the moon? Right! You know what? Forget the teleprompter. I’m just going to speak from the heart! (pauses dramatically) My friends, together we will… uh… erm…

An awkward silence as a tumbleweed blows across the stage.

Bumbleton

In the small town of Bumbleton, people were known for their hospitality, their fondness for tea, and their uncanny ability to completely misunderstand everything anyone ever said.

One sunny morning, the town was buzzing because Mayor Higglebottom had called for a special meeting in the village hall to discuss a “very important matter”. Naturally, this caused a ripple of confusion across Bumbleton, where “important matters” were typically treated with the same urgency as deciding what type of biscuits to serve with tea.

At 10 AM sharp, the townspeople gathered in the hall, and Mayor Higglebottom stepped up to the podium, looking particularly serious. He cleared his throat.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “I’ve called you all here today because there’s been a significant increase in fox sightings near the village.”

Mr Puddlesworth, the town’s most forgetful baker, stood up immediately, eyes wide. “What? Socks fighting? How are the socks fighting? And why wasn’t I told about this sooner?”

The mayor blinked. “No, no, not socks, Mr Puddlesworth. Foxes. The animals, you see.”

Mrs Fiddlebatch, who ran the town’s knitting club, jumped up next. “Why are we discussing clocks at this hour? It’s a disgrace to keep clocks fighting at this time of day. My grandmother always said, clocks should only be allowed to fight at midnight, when it’s respectable.”

The mayor, looking flustered, tried again. “Not clocks, Mrs Fiddlebatch. Foxes! Wild foxes in the woods.”

But by now the room was in full chaos. Mr Puddlesworth had taken it upon himself to lecture the crowd on the dangers of sock fights, which apparently were “the leading cause of holes in footwear,” while Mrs Fiddlebatch was furiously scribbling down notes for her next knitting club meeting, where she planned to launch an anti-clock-brawling campaign.

Meanwhile, Tom Widdlestitch, the town’s resident conspiracy theorist, stood up at the back of the hall, waving a hand dramatically. “Ah, I see what’s going on here!” he shouted. “The mayor’s trying to distract us from the real issue! It’s the pigeons, isn’t it? They’ve been spying on us for weeks! I’ve seen them, with their beady little eyes, watching us from the rooftops, probably working for the secret government.”

The mayor’s face was turning a deep shade of crimson. “No, Tom, this has nothing to do with pigeons or—”

“Ah-ha! You see? That’s exactly what someone working for the pigeons would say!” Tom declared, crossing his arms triumphantly. “You can’t fool me, Higglebottom.”

The mayor was about to respond when Mrs Trumpet, the town’s most notorious gossip, stood up and gasped dramatically. “Did you say pigeons are wearing hats? I knew it! I saw a pigeon last week and thought, ‘That bird looks far too fashionable for Bumbleton.’ I even told Gertrude next door. ‘That pigeon is probably from London,’ I said. Now it all makes sense.”

Mayor Higglebottom, visibly shaken, took a deep breath. “No, Mrs Trumpet, I did not say pigeons are wearing hats. No one is wearing hats!”

Mrs Trumpet, still not listening to a word anyone was saying, turned to Mrs Fiddlebatch. “Did you hear that, dear? The pigeons have hats. No wonder they’ve been acting so suspicious. Probably trying to blend in with the local gentry. Pigeons have no business in fashion, if you ask me.”

Mayor Higglebottom slumped in defeat, realising there was no point trying to explain anymore. Bumbleton would remain a place where socks, clocks, pigeons in hats, and the occasional dancing badger somehow became the centre of every conversation, no matter the original topic.

With a deep sigh, he stepped down from the podium and muttered to himself, “Maybe Tom was right… perhaps the pigeons are behind all of this.”