Christmas Eve. It’s the day before Christmas Day. The day before. Think about that.
All Hallows Eve (or Halloween if you’re a fat kid looking for free sugar). It’s the day before All Hallows Day. The day before. Remember that.
The Eve of Destruction. Barry McGuire unloaded his prophetic dirge about the world destroying itself in 1965. That was 51 years ago. We’re still waiting. Apparently, the Eve of Destruction breaks the norm when it comes to Eves, in that it’s not a day before, but some non-specific amount of years.
Barry’s whinging protest pop ditty warned against man’s appetite for war and called for a united human race (apart from those in Red China, eh Barry? Fuck them, because you don’t like Commies, do you?). Anyway, I’m calling the whole Eve of Destruction thing as bullshit. Sorry Barry, but you were wrong, and that’s that. You cannot have a 51 year (and counting) Eve. Barry McGuire, false prophet, no, I don’t believe were are on the eve of destruction.
What’s the time? No, it’s not Chico time. It’s time to find another false prophet. In 1947 the Bulletin of Atomic Scientists revealed the Doomsday Clock. It allegedly showed the countdown to nuclear oblivion. To highlight the advancement of the nuclear age, it was set at 7 minutes to midnight. At midnight, the party was due to start. Now, even if you’re basing dates on theory rather than the realisation of the nuclear age, the start point is around 1933.
So, in 14 years the clock sped around to 7 minutes to midnight. Since 1947, it should have been around the dial a fair few times. That means oblivion has already happened … but it hasn’t. I’m calling bullshit on the Doomday Clock, and I reckon the Bulletin of Atomic Scientists should wind the fucker up, because it’s clearly running slow. Sorry science blokes, but you’re a bunch of false prophets.
Who else should be on the list? Well, we could add anyone who worked in the IT sector 20 years ago. They ‘prophesised’ that computers, the advanced marvel of the modern age, the processing miracles that could out-think even the smartest humans, would be bollocksed when the calendar went from 1999 to 2000. Apparently, these advanced machines which could carry out calculations into the trillions and beyond couldn’t process that 2000 came after 1999. The myth (it was a lie, actually, designed to suck money from the pockets of the gullible) was that programmers had ‘forgotten’ to write calendars in computers that went past the 1900s, because they thought the machines might not have lasted that long. The old code was then used until someone realised it was too late.
Of course, the idea that someone sat there and typed in all the dates is a load of old bollocks. A simple algorithm was used which was always going to carry on regardless. The IT industry, meanwhile, mercilessly bullshitted until they’d scammed everyone they could. Then 2000 came and went. Nothing happened. Old IT blokes are nothing but a bunch of false prophets.
Who else is there? Well, there’s me.
‘What the fuck?’ I hear you exclaim. ‘How can this be? You are, after all, a teller of truths!’
Well, it’s nice of you to think so, and in a way you’re right, because I am now telling you the truth. I prophesised something that didn’t happen. In reality, it was never going to happen. Not a chance. Indeed, the eve of destruction turning into actual destruction, the doomsday clock running out and the Millennium bug eating civilisation were more likely to happen than what I foresaw.
When I first arrived at the Five Acres of Idiocy I prophesised that come summer the land would be awash with fruit and vegetables. Why wouldn’t it be? It was February and life was about to become a bowl of cherries (well, maybe not as our cherry tree is a flowering cherry so produces no fruit, but you know what I mean). I sourced manure, I planned a space, and then…
Every day there seems to be a new job that needs doing. I don’t remember it being like this at the old place. There’s house renovations, septic tank traumas, water heating conundrums, overhead power line bedlam, fisticuffs with energy suppliers, truck repairs, tree felling concerns, crashed machinery, toad relocations and a whole host of other crap to deal with.
We’ve had a procession of builders, electricians, plumbers, shit pipe experts, architects, liars (that’s British Gas, naturally) and general ne’er-do-wells traipsing through, all taking money for various tasks badly done. Well, British Gas didn’t get any money because I threw the bastard out. He told me I was passive aggressive. As he ran away I shouted after him, ‘Fuck you; I’m aggressive aggressive!’
So, I planted some corn, squash, artichokes and onions, albeit too late. I’m holding our for an Indian summer. Is that it, I hear you ask. Yes, that’s it. Would you feel like plating some cabbage after having to try and shove a garden fork up a builder’s rectum? Thought not!
I have learned something, though, and am already looking for winter’s new cider apple trees. And I’ve got to build a wood store. And have a log burner fitted. And get the new kitchen installed. And rebuild the bathroom. And finish the brewery. I mean, for chuff’s sake, I haven’t even had the banjo out of its case since I got here.
And you tell me, over and over and over again my friend, that you don’t believe we’re on the eve of destruction…
Piss off Barry!