In 1983, when I was born, there was an earthquake in Indonesia, which killed twenty thousand people, two years later a volcano erupted in Sheffield. Ten thousand died and another forty thousand were left homeless for the remainder of the year until Christmas, when Santa shone his magic wand on those gathered beneath the cities tree. And he swore to do them justice, to give them the homes they deserved after spending half a year in the cold British weather but they never materialised. Fifteen years later, children have grown up on the streets and there is a whole new culture, with music and movies about living on the streets. And they have their own languages called Slopshire, where they speak English, but pronounce each word as if there was slurry in their mouth. And once a month their a is huge dance, where all the kids go to fuck and get preggers so that they can claim welfare from the government and buy a box off the box man, who comes around to their alcoves and dwellings just once every two months, so they had better have the money ready or else. Or else they’ll be homeless for another two months without a box to cover their heads, a box with the scent of new fridges and maybe microwaves if you are really poor.
The earthquake and the volcano are related because the two are always related and that was the only earthquake before that particular eruption. So the people of Sheffield took to arms, many years after the volcano, and many years after the rich folk had moved out to the suburbs to avoid the scavengers that would rob them blind. The street people gathered whatever sharp instruments were lying about from the last street war and they travelled to Indonesia to wreck revenge on those hapless sons of bitches who deserved the volcano much more that the British. But when they arrived, they were greeted by poor just like them, but who actually had much less than they because their kitchen appliance industry wasn’t as advanced as the British so their boxes were smaller and quiet possibly second hand with tears mended with sticky tape that was peeling off from piss thrown on the street from windows high above. So, the Sheffield people went home and the year was 1989, when the Berlin wall fell.
But now, all of the poor people are gone because the E.U interfered accusing the British Parliament of allowing these people to develop cultures ulterior to what they allow and frankly they abhor the smell, which has travelled across the continent and can be sensed by keen animals such as dogs in eastern Europe. But not as far as Russia, but their noses are blocked from perpetual common colds, so they wouldn’t even know anyway. A big clean-up was organised, bulldozers gathering the sleeping street folk, who didn’t awaken from the noise because they were used to such levels and perhaps even louder noises, no one could be sure. All they them were put into a local river, so their bodies flowed into the sea, some died but most evolved into sea creatures that still live beneath the ocean surface like a Disney cartoon, only to resurface to fart at Britain and the poke their noses up, or maybe once to protest the use of pesticides on coastal crops because they have destroyed their water, forcing them to move further out in treacherous oceans. They have children too you know and it’s hard to watch over them and do all of the chores. Mothers are over worked and the fathers never help, they just come home and watch plankton stick to whales. Why should they bother?