The last original thought on the planet was eliminated in a comedy bar in Manchester, May 30, 2033.
There had been rumours for months: the townspeople, Mancunians, apparently smiling randomly on the tram, not a smirk in sight; pubs with awful beer and growing numbers of customers.
There were no jobs, but Universal British Income ensured that people didn’t actually die…
Workers in the office rust-belts now spent their days at the recycling plant, or at their screen completing online surveys for 3 British Techcoin an hour. Many preferred to stand knee deep in the garbage pits than let the bot-generated media rot their brains. Everyone needed beer money, “discretionary spend” in government parlance.
There were no jobs, but Universal British Income ensured that people didn’t actually die, they just wished for sweet release.
Our kid, Malc, kept paper and pen in the toilet. I told him, “Try something funny again and it’ll be the last thing you do.” He laughed through the bathroom door. I could hear him scribbling out a few words and jotting down my own for future use. Malc used to be the class clown, now he was just sad. I kicked the door open. He was sat there, trousers round his ankles, pen behind his ear. I pulled the pin and rolled an imaginary grenade at him. He was genuinely terrified for a second, then he feigned a spectacular death.
We’d seen the detector vans patrolling the town. They were driverless Muskmobiles that had comical rabbit ear antennae on top. They’d stop between the blocks of flats and the rabbit ears would twitch, scanning the activity on everybody’s infoscreens or phones. They were looking for signs of the old handmade shows being screened. They say they can detect human laughter too.
It had been easy for the authorities to crack down at first as the internet was monitored, but soon there were homebrew devices which allowed most people to watch what they wanted - usually old TV shows with human writers. These were illegal as they were deemed “anti-democratic”. Folks used their Techcoin to pay the scalping networks. But increasingly, people couldn’t be bothered, the scalpers were arrested, and the detectors discovered fewer and fewer breaches of the law. Then none at all.
The real fun used to be had in joining in with impromptu barbecues in gardens and family trips to the park where laughter and singing would sometimes be heard. But this became a public order offence.
Malc was a freedom fighter, or terrorist, depending on your point of view. He’d scribble together a set list of original or nostalgic material, then either sell it to edgy “stand-up” performers, or best of all, perform it himself in a speakeasy. There was only one left now, hidden upstairs, at New Hardy’s Well in the student district. Nobody knew there weren’t any more operating, not in Bolton, London, New York or Paris - this was the last comedy dive on Earth.
I took Malc there, that night in May – two-up on my scooter. I sat proudly at the back while he delivered a nostalgic set of smooth material and Jimmy Carr putdowns. Then he glanced briefly at his scribblings, put the paper into his pocket and luxuriated in new material, much of it off the cuff. The grenade joke was in there and a diatribe on recycling humour. Tears were streaming down their faces. My sides hurt. We were soaring once again.
Weakened by laughter, the bouncers were no match for the police running into the gig. They produced batons and tasers and they closed us down. Some thought it was part of the act, but it wasn’t funny really.
They tore down the pub. We never saw Malc again. I miss him so much. The rumour was that they chained him to a keyboard and screen, eyes wired open like in Clockwork Orange. He’d be forced to watch that tedious pap and vote up lines that showed any semblance of nuance. I think he beat the system somehow. I swear I actually smiled at something I watched the other day. It was deeply sarcastic and it seemed to carry his voice across the network.
~Niall