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%20Armageddon%2001%20-%20Armageddon%20The%20Musical.txt
Armageddon The Musical
Robert Rankin
VIEW WHAT THOU WILT SHALL BE THE WHOLE OF THE LAW
Planet Earth rolled on in ever decreasing circles around the sun. As it had been
carrying on in
this fashion for more years than anyone cared to remember, there seemed no
cause for immediate
alarm. Not that things were exactly a bundle of laughs down on old terra firma at
the present
time, oh dear me, no. Things had never been quite the same since, in a moment
of gay abandonment,
out-going US president Wayne L. Wormwood had chosen to press the nuclear
button just as the New
Year bells were gaily chiming in the arrival of the twenty-first century.
This generally unwelcome turn in events had caught many with their trousers
well and truly down
and had definitely taken the edge off much of the auld lang syning. But it did, at
least, offer
followers of the late great Nostradamus the dubious satisfaction of spending
their final four
minutes saying ‘I told you so’ to anyone who seemed inclined to listen.
The Nuclear Holocaust Event, as the media later dubbed it, was a somewhat
The Nuclear Holocaust Event, as the media later dubbed it, was a somewhat
noisy and unsettling
affair, and was considered by the naturally pessimistic to be ‘the end of
civilisation as we know
it’. Of course it was nothing of the kind and a surprising number of folk did
come out of it
relatively unscathed, if not altogether uncomplaining. The governments of the
day rose to the
occasion with such remarkable aplomb that one might have been forgiven for
thinking that they were
expecting
it all along. Although the water was a bit iffy and lamb looked like being off the
menu for some
time to come, the TV was back on within the week, which can’t be bad by any
reckoning. And it was
encouraging to note that not only had unemployment been cut at a stroke, as had
long been
promised, but racial intolerance ceased virtually overnight, mankind now being
united beneath the
banner of a single colour. A rather unpleasant shade of mould green.
But, as someone almost said, you can’t please all of the people all of the time.
And, even now,
fifty years on, with the smoke beginning to clear, radiation on its way down and
that nebulous
something, oft referred to as normal service, restored, there were still no outward
signs of
euphoria evident upon the faces of Mr and Mrs Joe Public. Not that anyone was
actually heard to
complain, and why should they? Today’s nuclear family had very much to be
grateful for. Three
square meals a week, unlimited cable television, a constant room temperature,
low overheads and
free waste disposal. And leisure time had really come into its own.
Of course, the prospect of spending your brief span banged up in a bomb-proof
bunker, watching TV
and awaiting further developments, was not everyone’s cup of enzo-protein
synthatea. But you did,
at least, have the satisfaction of knowing that, even here, you could play your
part in the
glorious rebuilding scheme.
Active Viewing was now the name of the game, down below. The console of the
TV terminal put
everything that was left of the world at the finger stumps of the bunker-bound.
And there was a
great deal to see. The re-education programmes, the devotional exercises, the
food operas, the
game shows, not to mention the public service broadcasts. It was all there, and
the choice of what
you watched, and when, was all yours. A constitutional right. All the
government asked was that
you did watch. So, as an incentive and to ensure just reward, they had instituted
a system which
was, in its way, every bit as fundamentally brilliant and divinely inspired as had
been the wheel
clamp in twentieth-century London.
Every TV terminal now had an inbuilt Electronic Eye Scanning Point Indicator,
or EYESPI for short.
This marvel of modern technology was capable of recognising the viewer by the
individual patterns
of their irises, iris ‘signatures’ having, of course, been registered at birth with the
mother
computer. Once recognition had been established, this ingenious little doodad
totted up the number
of weekly viewing hours being put in by the active viewer in question. Once
these were logged,
food, medical supplies and rehousing credits then could be allocated
accordingly.
It was a wonderful system: unbiased, democratic, free for all to take advantage
of and with an
obvious appeal to mankind’s naturally competitive spirit. So wonderful was it in
fact, that the TV
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stations felt impelled to extol its virtues every hour upon the hour. Its simple
majesty being
summed up, rather succinctly (and not a little poignantly) in the famous hymn
summed up, rather succinctly (and not a little poignantly) in the famous hymn
jingle, ‘The more
you view the more you do, the more we vet the more you get.’ (No. 4302, New
World TV Hymnal.)
But, as has previously been stated, pleasing all the people all of the time is an
incomplete
science. And so this system, as near to perfect as any that can be imagined, had
its dissenters.
Not that any of them actually came out into the open to complain about it, of
course. No chance of
that. They were far too busy glued to their TV screens in a desperate attempt to
clock up
sufficient rehousing credits.
1
There are only five great men and three of them are hamburgers. Don Van Vliet
Back in those carefree days of the 1980s it was very much the vogue amongst
the well-to-dos to
seek out dilapidated character properties for conversion. Medieval timber-
framed barns, oast
houses, clapped out windmills, all were considered dead chic. And you really
weren’t anybody if
you didn’t possess, at the very least, a Wesleyan chapel with all its bits and bobs
you didn’t possess, at the very least, a Wesleyan chapel with all its bits and bobs
intact, that
you had painstakingly tortured into a design studio, complete with en suite
bathrooms, fitted
kitchen and solarium.
Few there were with sufficient foresight to consider what the twentieth century
itself might offer
in the way of character property. In fact, it wasn’t until well into the 1990s that
the potential
of such derelict period pieces as supermarkets, Habitat stores, fast breeder
reactors and battery
chicken houses was fully exploited. By the year 2050, however, there was hardly
a building
standing above ground that hadn’t been commandeered and converted.
Rex Mundi occupied an apartment built high in the north-west corner of Odeon
Towers. The building
was of the pre-NHE persuasion and had long ago been a cinema.
11
Rex shared his living room with a weighty section of mock Rococo ceiling
cornice and an enormous
gilded cherub. This grinning monstrosity had once bestowed its distant smile
upon several
upon several
generations of cinema-going heads. Now it stared with equal cheer, if somewhat
foreshortened
vision, into the ragged length of sacking which served Rex as carpet. But it was
a small price to
pay for overground accommodation. Six floors beneath Mrs Maycroft shared her
rooms with several
rows of cinema seats, and the young woman who lived in the tobacco kiosk
never complained. As for
the old couple who had been allocated the gents’ toilet, well that didn’t bear
thinking about. All
in all Rex had done quite well for himself.
On this particular morning, Rex sat in his homemade armchair, facing the
flickering TV screen. His
was the classic seated posture of the Active Viewer. Relaxed yet attentive, right
thumb and
forefinger about the remote controller, expression alert, eyes wide. But here all
similarities
ended. Rex Mundi was fast asleep.
His old Uncle Tony had taught him the technique when he was but a leprous lad,
and there was no
doubt that it did pay big dividends. It had already earned Rex sufficient
rehousing credits to get
him overground and he actually possessed a surplus of food and medico rations.
His generosity with
