Call off all space missions. There’s no need to consult your astrological charts. Tarot cards? Yesterday’s news mate. Tales from the future have just been beamed back from a far off time (we can’t be sure from when exactly, because so legend – can it be legend if it hasn’t happened yet? But then, it kind of has. Freaky. Anyway, so legend has it, everyone stopped counting time after 3005. Apparently they argue it takes too much time) and, sorry chaps, it ain’t good news.
So who is the architect of this dystopian news report? Whose scriptures will single-handedly make those predicting the future, shaping the future, understanding the future, redundant? Well, you can’t say you weren’t warned.
You see, in the year of our Lord 2080 the world succumbs to the somewhat inevitable doomsday scenario. Our brave new world is devoid of soul, its inhabitants unquestioning automatons. Indeed the power of the morally bankrupt sphere of advertising is such that children are no longer given recognisable Christian names: rather their personalities have been sold off to the highest commercial bidder and they are now known by instantly dubious advertising slogans such as Coke Is It or Just Do It.
At the heart of this maelstrom exists the one and only Princess Superstar. Having sold her soul to a computer in some Faustian pact, Superstar controls all levels of celebrity. She is the only pop star