Nobody is aware of this, but a few; me and my wife to be exact.
My recent travels with Captain Candy have revealed the truth about the nature of existence: the world ended some time in November 1979. That strangely coincided with Pick Floyd’s release of The Wall. It was also the time that Captain Candy and I were at sixth-form, many miles apart. But eh, what are miles when light years are in the mix?
I have a deep suspicion that my erstwhile sharer is some type of time lord. Lord is pushing it a little, perhaps he’s a time butler or time window cleaner or just a time rag and bone man. When under interrogation during our daily car-shares, every reference that he makes to the outside world is limited by the bottle-stop of that penultimate decade-ending year.
The last great Doctor Who was John Pertwee as he had never even heard of David Tennant. The last Bond Film ever made was Moonraker. The forever Prime-Minister was Margaret Thatcher. Punk Rock was just a bunch of scummy working class types who couldn’t sing or play their guitars. The Times newspaper was about to be published again after an irritating struggle with the lefty unions. Anthony Blunt, art historian and lefty was the fourth man. And the bloody camel jockeys are charging more and more for their black gold whilst also laying seige to the US embassy in Iran.
At the end of the month, the 30th to be closer, the world ended. Things just stopped happening. My Time Toilet Cleaner was able to flush the future down the pan and the rest of the world carried on without realising that 1979 was the end of days.
“I think he actually did it,” I told my wife in bed this morning. “I think that he actually stopped time back then.”
“So how is it that we are talking about it now?”
“We may be only thinking that we are talking about it, but we are thinking about it inside the eternal caverns of that great man’s mind.”
“You need to stop sharing a car with him.”