Approaching the Cliff.

Oh God No! No. My head, I can’t take it, no, make them stop. Beam me up Spotty. Spotty, are you there? No. God this is worse than Dr Who worsest worse fantasy. They just played Cliff Richard’s ‘Summer Holiday’ on the radio, and that’s it, that’s what’s happening. It was like a blinding flashing flash of realisation, seeing them in their hundred and thousands mindlessly following that banal skippy tune. “We’ve seen it on the Moo-vie show, now lets see if it’s true.” Skippy, skippy, skippety skip. Blank smiles and endless machine laughter as they follow Sir Cliff on his big red pleasure bus into the screen of endless illusion. The cinema is empty; the sofa has a fading presence. Where have all the children gone? Sucked off in glassy eyed contentment by some evil projectionist? Bribed into it by EMA, uni grants and Carlsberg? Unhindered by any necessity? So why stay when, “Fun and laughter on our Summer Holiday” beckons in perpetuity? But who will be left to carry on the arguments about politics, philosophy, art and religion till dawn when the only imperative is to agree on, “What shall we watch next?” No reason for learning just to get some meaningless exam pass. No reason to vote, to hurt with the creation of art, no reason to wonder the complexity of why we’re here or argue the merits of parables, because we’ve evolved into the screen. So Cliff please bring our children back after they’ve been, “on holiday for a week or two.” We need them.