Re: Dystopian Fiction, was Re: Triffids to Return

On Dec 2, 11:15 pm, Sofa - Spud <comfyso...@xxxxxxxxxxxxx> wrote:
Shrike wrote:
On Dec 2, 7:32 pm, Sofa - Spud <comfyso...@xxxxxxxxxxxxx> wrote:

Dystopian fiction is now pretty much the preserve of cinema, whether
it be via the grim portrayals of Gotham City in the Batman films or
Bradburyesque dictatorships in films like 'Equilibrium'.
Thomas Harris's 'Fatherland' was adapted by HBO in the States but the
author disliked the result. The BBC could have a go at rectifying
this. However, I would prefer to see Sarban's little known dystopian
horror novel 'The Sound Of His Horn' adapted for television.
Having said that, what need is there for a dystopian interpretation of
the UK? In reality we already live in the most heavily surveiiled
society on the planet; politicians can get arrested for merely
opposing the ruling party; would-be protestors and lobbyists are
prevented from taking public action under Draconian public order
bills; suspected 'enemies of the state' can be held for an incredible
42 days without charge; several thousand policemen are to be allowed
to use a potentially lethal stun gun; the disenfranchised underclass
has been ghettotised into joyless prison-camp style estates while the
cosy little Shire villages have become enclaves for the wealthy ruling
elite; etc etc. As for the arts, the 'proles' eagerly lap up reality
TV like willing masochists in a manner that can only be compared to
Nigel Kneale's 'The Year Of The Sex Olympics'.
WTF are you on barker? The shires? what century are you posting from?

The Shires, yes. It's a reference to 'Lord Of The Rings' by Tolkein.
Hobbits live in cosy little enclaves called Shires, blissfully
ignorant of the wider affairs of the world.

If you'd like a link to a webpage which discusses LOTR let me know.
I'm only too happy to assist the less fortunate.

You tried to read 1984 once and now you try and regurgitate it.

If you mean did I study it for A level, then yes, you're right, I did.
1984 isn't the only dystopian novel I've read but it's certainly one
of the best. Fictional dystopias interest me greatly; that's probably
why I've been working on one for quite some time now.

**Clang** as that one drops in again - is this novel an Autobiography?



I presume that your sign-writing business is immune to the credit
crunch, which is why you're still able to spend most of your working
day posting so positively and creatively on usenet with a persistence
that can only be described as Neroesque.

Hmm , it's late in the evening here barker , you see  the rest of us who
work actually have some structure in the day , Breakfast dinner tea
evening etc.- Hide quoted text -

- Show quoted text -

Sofa Spud's Structured Day:

7am. Wife serves breakfast in bed - cold dripping on black pudding. SS
waddles over to computer to post his first six usenet rants.

8am. SS drives into work in battered white van, making sure to charge
the petrol to his ailing business. His grant-subsidised YTS trainee is
shivering in the cold, clutching a bottle of milk and three newspapers
(Daily Sport, The Mirror and The Sun). SS opens up the workshop aka an
arches lock-up, and hastens into his MDF constructed office to switch
on the fan heater.

8.30am. YTS trainee hops from foot to foot in the cold waiting for
some work to come in while SS cranks up his 20 year old Amstrad to
post racist rants on usenet. SS shuts the door to keep the heat in.

10am. Ice cream seller calls in to have his signage touched-up. SS
offers to work cash-in-hand and greedily pockets £100. As the YTS
trainee does all the work, SS guzzles a bucket of free ice cream.

10.45am. The work being finished, SS sends the trainee out for a bag
of Asda doughnuts while he retires to the toilet with the Daily
Sport.

11am. The trainee returns with a half dozen soggy doughuts. SS takes
the four biggest for himself and retires to his office to carefully
falsify the receipt by adding an extra zero. Once this important piece
of accouting has been completed, he goes back onto usenet, stabbing at
the keyboard with plump, sugar-frosted fingers.

12 noon. SS allows the trainee a 30 minute break to eat his potted
meat sandwiches in the toilet. SS conducts his weekly risk assessment,
waddling up and down the workshop to see how any times he trips over
the congealed paint pots. The phone rings. He shuffles into the office
eagerly anticpiating a big order but it is a wrong number.

12.30pm. SS locks the office and leaves the trainee in charge of the
workshop after giving his one employee a motivational team-building
talk.

"If this place isn't swept and tidied up by the time I get back then
you're never getting your passport back, you filthy Ukranian refugee."

1pm - 2.30pm. SS dozes in his Parker Knowll reclining chair from DFS
as his wife scurries about preparing a lunch of oven chips, fried eggs
and slab cake. After eating he waddles upstairs to the bedroom to
check the usenet posts, fearful that his record as the Most Prolific
Poster Of Twaddle will be usurped by Alan Hope or Jeff Lawrence.

3.30pm. Back in the office, SS is posting more messages to usenet when
the council phone, chasing-up unpaid business rates.

"I have staff who deal with stuff like that," he lies. "Accountants
and so forth. What are you bothering me for? I'm running a successful
business here, I don't have time to talk to you, you lazy tax-
collecting pension greedy officious safe job cowards. You should try
working in the real world."

SS slams the phone down and returns to usenet.

4.30pm. SS ventures out into the workshop to discover that, rather
selfishly, his Ukranian trainee has contracted hypothermia and has
fallen into a coma. He borrows a trolley from the MOT workshop next
door and wheels the young lad down to the GP surgery. SS rings the
door bell and runs away.

5pm. SS is back at home in his armchair, waiting for his wife to drop
chunks of pepperoni pizza into his mouth as he watches a recording of
the Jeremy Kyle show. Whenever an unemployed or non-white person
appears on the screen he pelts the television with rolled-up Quality
Street wrappers.

"Filthy dole scum paki bastards!" he screams.

6pm - 11pm. SS sits hunched over the computer in his bedroom, guzzling
pork scratchings, carefully monitoring usenet posts as he plays a
pirated version of Nazi Stormtrooper IV: The Rape Of Poland.

11.05pm. Having finished the housework, Mrs SS begins to clamber up
the stairs to bed. SS pits the Amstrad power switch and dives into
bed, where he pretends to be snoring.

"Ah, bless," mutters Mrs SS to herself. "The poor dear's been working
too hard again. I don't know how he manages to cope with these ten
hour days, not to mention working every evening on the internet."
























































































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