Flu in sector S7

Just as the full ravagings of sweat, nausea and dizziness had taken hold, those in charge of the information airwaves cranked it up a notch. The afternoon play, an institution setup to gently lull a cipher into a relaxing snooze struck up on the wireless box and began to spew its rank fictions into this sick, vulnerable mind.

Alarm bells started going when the introduction purported to offer the story of stuggling graduates in the midst of the Credit Crunch. Then it all began to hideously unravel. No jobs, no prospects, Tristram's position at the hedge fund, it turns out, no longer exists. 5 painfully fleshed out 22 year old cliches sit around in a flat in Primrose Hill fulfilling every ugly myth of our time.

They have 10,000 songs on their ipods, they quote Brett Easton Ellis, they have lots of casual intercourse, they have lots of expensive wine, mobile phone sound effects go off intermittently (how else would they), they twitter, and bemoan the fact they have nothing to put on their Facebook walls. As our narrator says, "we did everything right." They got ten A stars at GCSE, 10 A stars at A level, top degrees, they edited student newspapers and DJ'ed at the right bop sheds: how dare they be denied their right to jobs in the media, or in the banks, or in the fucking gutter where they belong.

But woah there, in case you aren't already on the edge of your seat at the prospect of where this is all going, a narrative hook has been introduced: our narrator has just taken things meta!!! She's going to write a novel called Zeitgeist Blues (at this point the safety bucket was doused in hot flowing vomit) and tell the story of how these fuck nuts kept themselves entertained during June 2009. Wowee!

At this point, this cipher passed out into a gruelling darkness. The play and the reaction could only mean two terrible things:

1. This cipher is very sick.

The public information wizards made a call when they commissioned this piece of work. They sat around a table and said, this really means something, this will resonate with people, it truly evokes our time. Young people will appreciate what we are doing, and more importantly, their parents will also be listening and they'll like it too because the characters are just young misguided sweet hearts.

Sadly, there was no hint that this "Generation X" fiction would ascend to the glorious defilement and revulsion hinted at in the quoting of American Psycho's author. Heaven knows the characters' deserved hacking to bits and boiling in their own blood without remorse. This cipher was reminded again that this place is not for him. A good cipher smiles and is grateful at the good information offered up by the broadcast authorities, he does not become sicker as a result. No, this cipher's sickness runs deep and this is a warning.

2. The narrator has a job.

The worst thing about this event is that while the anger boils and one sits wishing misery on these jobless cretins, the play, just by its very presence, represents, that the author, who is very likely the self-same person as our smug bitch narrator has been paid handsomely and gratefully with money from the public purse to trot out this torturous mess. No doubt, the final scene is her walking smugly out of some commissioning editor's office with a bag full of money and a familiar opaque albumen dripping from her cheek - but they couldn't put that bit on the radio. I yearned to be back at "work" if only so as not to be left vulnerable to such matter.

Here in 2050, they had us sussed alright.