Welcome to Westmoreland Street of the future, where a female cyclist is mercilessly bulldozed to death by an oncoming tram while a man arguably more deserving of public execution takes his twelve thousandth selfie before lunch. A lunch of kiff butter served from an upcycled exhaust pipe and a carafe of kír royale served from a glass clarinet salvaged from the Franco-Prussian war, the early bird setting one back a cool 300,000 euro. Most waiters will only communicate via mime as things have become despairingly post-post-post modern. Menus will be written in Sanskrit.
 
Licensing laws have intensified and alcohol is only served between the hours of 5p.m-5.25p.m, but Gambian machiattos are available at any time. Guinness was outlawed after it was discovered to contain liquid traces of asphalt and fatal amounts of cadmium. In a harrowing case, one man, Jarlath O’Plux, was found swimming across the English channel howling the verse of Patrick Kavanagh, his head the size of a grape fruit having drank the substance for over ninety days solid. He was resuscitated, ordered to practice abstinence, and given a job in the civil service.
 
Arctic Jazz is what all the cool kids are grooving to – via the speakers sewn into their hippocampuses. The music is so experimental and dissonant it is being linked to nervous breakdowns among the elderly and keen-eared animals alike. Gerbils are said to be unaffected.
Meanwhile, in the right middle-ground, a cap-wearing youth propositions a working girl for an aperitif of red bull and ketamine on a bench by the quays. “As repulsive as that sounds, I’ll have to decline”, she blushes politely.
 
And, look! Look, in the right foreground, as a puzzled looking woman, her sinuous figure sent airborne by a robust gale, her jaded eyes riven by financial burden, looks wearily towards her new home in a renovated shipyard on the Northside docks as rent on the Southside has reached usurious heights and landlords now carry the latest iKnives, which also measure gluten content, socioeconomic compatibility, pubic density and also gluten index.
 
Yoga and Pilates have become enshrined into the constitution.
 
Foetuses are now downloaded, thus annihilating the debate on abortion. Genetics are now commensurate with annual income. The concept of pro-creation and existence is mainly experienced as an adjunct of technology. Technology IS being. The family experience, now considered a risible relic of a silly age, can be purchased via an app-store (St. Patrick’s Cathedral H.Q) and consumed by wearing an Oculus Rift, or the latest iCornea, where addiction, anxiety, divorce, financial ruin, and psychological disenchantment are all in-app purcheses.
 
The Irish language survives solely on Skellig rock, by a troupe of volatile, yet stunningly beautiful, bohemian sorcerers.
 
Feminism/Chauvinism becomes assimilated into transgenderhumananimism, wherein human beings undergo surgery to metamorphosis into whatever member of the animal kingdom they felt like. Literate, domestic pets were given seats in both the Seanad, the Aras (Pug O’Riain, 2029-2032) and the now 24 hour cocaine-roller-disco, The Dáil which is comprised mainly of aggressive and disillusioned chihuahuas crawling with fleas.
 
Scotland is now located in the South Pacific due to continental drift. England left Europe and sank under its own sense of self-importance.
 
Coppers is still operative and run by the unkillable, yet now chronically alcoholic Niall Harbison.
 
I for one hope to be living elsewhere before this chapter unfurls like an emphysemic cat’s tongue.
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