Well, it’s the end of the world then.
Yes, I’m well aware that that Raptor thing never happened, (which is probably just as well. I mean, after Jurassic Park, what other dinosaur thing ever worked out?) but just because some crazy bloke with an Armageddon fixation failed to predict the apocalypse, doesn’t mean it isn’t happening.
The signs are everywhere.
And I’m not talking old school Revelations kinda portents either. Those are for losers and amateurs. I mean, any two bit preacher can scream that the sky is falling when an unpronouncable volcanoe decides to vomit enough ash into the air to frighten British Airways. That’s child’s play. And give a homeless guy a couple of pints of absinthe, a sandwich board and a permanent marker, and point him towards the nearest tsunami and he’ll be proclaiming the end of days is on its way quicker than you can say ‘Get the hell away from me you piss smelling retch’.
No. I’m here to tell you that omens foreshadowing man’s final days on the earth have already passed you by and you never even noticed. So slight and unassuming were these bodements that they barely even caused a raised eyebrow or the exclamation of mild profanity that may, or may not, have questioned the parentage of Jamie Oliver.
‘What were they?’ I hear you mutter quietly to yourself.
Well, the first one even I nearly missed because, frankly, I’m not 12, but it’s was that a rapper won a Brit award. A rapper called Tinie Tempah.
I know, I was shocked as well. Not shocked that it was a horribly foreboding scenario that indicated the approach of the fourhorsemen, but shocked that someone who sounds like he should be asking me if I want to go large with my Big Mac meal, and who uses lyrics like ‘I got so many clothes, I keep some at my aunts house’ would actually win a Brit award.
OK, so I’m not exactly the foremost authority on what’s hip and happening on the music scene but, seriously, a Brit? For a guy who wrote ‘My uncle used to drink a can of kestrel’ or any of the lyrics used in Snap? Really?
So, the only conclusion I could come to was the obvious one: Portent.
But I began to doubt myself. With all the God botherers not floating away when that mental bloke said they would, and with the skies not boiling like lava I was starting to think that maybe I had been over-zealous with my assumptions; that maybe I had been wrong.
Then it happened. And it was a biggie.
And, I’m not even going to beat around the bush this time, I’m just going to come straight out and say it; The Only Way is Essex won a BAFTA! A BAFTA!! That pointless, feckless, cocksucking excuse for programming won a British Academy of Film and Televison Arts award!
A goddamn, motherfucking BAFTA!!
I mean, come on!! Had they won Heat magazine’s most watched pool of diarrhetic bowel evacuation I could have understood, but a fucking BAFTA!!
But, as awful a scenario as it was and as retched a statement it made about the mental state of the nation (I mean, seriously people, it was the people’s choice award!! People’s Choice, and the people chose a show about dumbfucks covering their genitals in glitter) it proved to me that I wasn’t crazy, that in modern times we shouldn’t be on the look out for catastrophic weather fronts or hails of frogs. We should be looking for televisual travesties such as these.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to the task in hand. I’m scouring the internet for signs that Jamie Oliver is about to win Personality of the Year, because after that life on this planet goes downhill pretty quickly.