Welcome to Earth, Population: growing!

When we think about threats to the environment, obvious examples include meteors, zombies, alien invasions or giant mutated swarms of stuff.  ‘Threats to the environment’ you understand, for most people, mean ‘threats to my way of living’ or more precisely ‘threats to my comfy lifestyle’.

Plastic, since the broadcast of a particular episode of ‘Blue Planet II’ is now a threat to the environment.  This is not new, plastic products, or more precisely the irresponsible use and disposal of plastic products, have been a threat to the environment since the first Cola bottle ended up in a hedge rather than a bin.  What was under threat was guilt-free cosy Sunday night television viewing.

Arguably, overpopulation is an environmental threat.  In this case ‘environmental threat’ means both an actual threat to the environment (trees, clouds, otters) and to cosy lifestyles.  Overpopulation means too many people relying on too few resources, as used to happen back in the day when the ‘must have Christmas toy’ was made of plastic rather than being a string of ones and zeros that could be downloaded on December 25.  This led to three inevitable results; a 90 second bit on the news about Cabbage Patch Dolls that informed hitherto blissfully ignorant parents that they were failures because they were condemning their child to a substandard Christmas; an ungrateful child on Christmas Morning, and hammer fights in the aisles Toys R Us.

There have been warnings about global overpopulation, but as ‘Make Room! Make Room!’ was a genre novel and the resulting movie ‘Soylent Green’ was a sci-fi movie, nobody paid much attention.

Moreover, overpopulation is subjective.  Fears of overpopulation played a part in the arguments surrounding the ill-fated 2016 Brexit referendum, when the argument was made that Great Britain was a small island and could not bear the influx of filthy foreigners coming here to clutter up our streets by taking selfies of themselves next to landmarks.  Anyone who has had to try and force themselves onto any form of public transport at a reasonable hour will also have their own thoughts on overpopulation, in particular how the battle for resources has not started with oil or water as predicted, but apparently with deodorant.

There are also places where it would be hard to argue that overpopulation is a threat, such as Exmoor, or behind the bar at All Bar One.

Overpopulation, and what to do about it, remains a popular fictional theme, from the TV programme ‘Utopia’ where the critical acclaim of the programme went unchallenged because nobody other than critics actually watched it, to ‘Avengers Infinity War’ where critical acclaim met viewer opinion that maybe those fuckers at Marvel should have put ‘Pt I’ on the title.

For much of the later part of the 20^th Century, overpopulation was not a widespread concern.  This was because global conflict was.

Attempts to halt overpopulation, in fiction anyway, usually involve megalomaniac billionaires plotting genocide, as in ‘Moonraker’, the Bond movie.

The reality, of course, would be very different.  If a billionaire industrialist were to try and control population growth, there are far more subtle and effective ways to do so than trying to kill off large numbers of people, the sort of activity that always leaves one vulnerable to the actions of a lone individual with a laser in his watch.

You could, for instance, invent an alcohol-free beer that did not taste completely disgusting.  This would mean that single people would not get hammered and have unprotected sex.

You could invent the ‘box set’, meaning that humans of breeding age would remain at home instead of socialising.

Invent Netflix, same thing.

You could invent magazines for women that give women unrealistic expectations of body image, but at the same time also publish magazines that show how awful the private lives of celebrity women are, meaning that the sort of women who are influenced by that sort of thing don’t think they are attractive enough to hook up with blokes, but also don’t have such low self-esteem that they will shag the first bloke that shows an interest in them.

Or, and this is probably ridiculous, you could popularise fantasy literature, ensuring the virginity of millions.

Review: Lost Mars

Classic science fiction.

I’d like to describe this as good old-fashioned science fiction, but not only is that not quite true, but it’s probably an oxymoron, how can you have old-fashioned science fiction?  Although, ‘oxymoron’ is a word that would fit neatly into this collection of stories, possibly Martian terraformer worker slang to describe one who is profligate or unwise with their air supply on Mars.

‘Lost Mars’ is a collection of short stories about the red planet edited, very well, by Mike Ashley, beginning with a short story from H. G. wells published in 1897 and concluding with a shirt story from 1963 by J. G. Ballard.  This proves not just the enduring attraction of romantic fiction about the red planet, but that if you want to write science fiction, it does no harm at all to have two initials instead of a first name.

The stories are varied in style and tone, but there is a theme.  Fittingly for a collection of stories written and published many years ago, forgotten by some and presented here to be freshly discovered in this exceptional collection, many of the stories are about archaeology.  There seems to be an overwhelming belief, usually inspired by the popular scientific theories of the time, that although Mars might be a dead world, it was once host to an advanced civilization, now long gone, the legacy of which is there to be discovered.

This book really is a treasure, and every story is a gem.

The editor has also contributed in no small way to the reader’s enjoyment.  The introduction, so often the part of the book one flips past so as to not prejudice enjoyment or, worse, encounter spoilers, is a thoughtful and informative piece.  Each story comes with a very brief introduction.  The editor has a voice here, but he does not outstay his welcome.

The stories themselves are superb.  I found myself noting down the names of those science fiction writers that I was unfamiliar with, as based on the strength of their stories here, there are authors here that should make their way into any science fiction lovers’ To Be Read pile.  Science fiction fans always have a To Be read pile, as science fiction fans rarely leave any second hand bookshop without grasping a really lovely, if slightly foxed, paperback edition of a ‘classic’ possibly long out of print, the cover of which would now not be acceptable as a result of the MeToo movement.  You know the ones.

This, then, is one of those books that you make time to read, by not doing other stuff.  This is a ‘just another ten minutes’ short story collection.  This is the sort of short story collection where, after making the deal with yourself that you will stop at the end of this story, leads you to start the next one, just to enjoy the contrast.  Just another ten minutes.

It’s the classic case of a book you race through and regret finishing.

The collection tracks the trajectory of the development of thoughtful science fiction.  Although perhaps ‘development’ is not quite the word because the first story is just as good as the last.  The stories could be in any order, but it’s fascinating to read them chronologically.

Although you could be forgiven for flipping straight to the Bradbury as a visitor to an art gallery would go straight to the da Vinci, his story is, heresy alert, among equals here.

There’s a delightful H. G. Wells short story that, like all great science fiction, is much more about the human condition than the alien one, a charming oddity from a forgotten, except by those who know better, writer that’s effectively a postcard from the past, a fabulous repost to the Menace From Space genre, a great tale of prospecting in a harsh environment that just happens to be set on Mars, a corking tale of an expedition to Mars, and The Bradbury, which is the gateway to the modern era of tales which concludes the collection.

Finally, a word about the edition.  A tremendous front cover redolent of every science fiction magazine you ever held and loved as a child.

Recommended.

Whatever happened to CELEBDAQ?

Back in the days when you had to plug your computer into your telephone line in order to download pornography, sorry, in order to go online, the BBC had a website called CELEBDAQ.  It was fabulous, but it’s probably a good thing that this site no longer exists, for the reasons explained below.

CELEBDAQ was, as the name implies, a trading game.  It was sort of a combination of Fantasy Football and Hello! magazine.  So it was a fantasy trading game, but unlike a game of trading footballers so that you could demonstrate that you were just as fucking clueless as any other manager in the Premiership about squad selection, or fantasy share dealing where you could pretend to be the sort of person who in their day job in the City meddled with the economies of developing countries and fucked them up, then at the weekend continued to spread social ill by supporting the drugs trade and so, generally, being the sort of person Dickens tried to warn us about, you traded in how famous a particular celebrity was that week.

Celebrity fame fluctuated, so if somebody had a film premier coming out, they would get more time in the media and their profile would rise and they would become more valuable as a celebrity.  However, as their fame rose, so their share price did, so if you knew that a blue chip famous person like Tom Hanks was going to be in London promoting his new film, he’s a sound investment for that week but you could only buy a few shares.

Much, much better to go to the ‘B’ listers or, as they were also known, those who appeared on television.

As far as I am aware, ‘personalities’ were not listed.

It was tremendous fun.  You had to register, all the cash was virtual and every week there was a star trader award.

Obviously, it had to end.

The trouble with celebrities is that they have, in recent years, traded fame for infamy.  Jimmy Saville got a lot of press coverage after he died, because it turned out that more than just looking like a nonce, he was a nonce.  Who knew?  Apparently, everyone knew.  People in the industry new and, in front rooms up and down the country when the news broke people who had seen him on telly years ago knew, or at least said ‘I fucking knew it’ under their breath.  Then Operation Yewtree got underway, and might as well have been titled Operation Yewboat because it sank the careers of quite a few telly personalities without trace.

That, as we now know, was just the tip of the shitberg.  Who would have imagined that greasy fucktards would have used their positions of power and influence to take advantage of vulnerable young people.  I mean, really, who knew?

We all know that nonces look like nonces.  We all now also know that any bloke with a fat BMI who is pictured with his arm around a young woman who looks like she is wishing that teleportation were a thing is what the newspapers term a ‘predator’.  And not something sleek that lives on the veldt, or even something with a cool shoulder mounted laser canon that hunts Arnie in the jungle, no, the sort of predator that disguises its distinctive scent of sweat and fat with money and lawyers.

Bluntly, it is no fun trading celebrities when they might make the news for all the wrong reasons.

Celebrities are, by and large, individuals who have used their talent in a way that has resulted in public notoriety in a good way.

The democratisation of the media has meant that anyone with the means to do so can upload a media clip of themselves to a media platform, and other folk can watch it and leave snarky comments.  What this has proved is that although the number of people who think they have a talent is apparently limitless, the pool of really talented people remains finite.

So maybe CELEBDAQ deserves a comeback after all, because of the listing, a bona fide list of who is, and who is not, a celebrity.  Youtubers need not apply.