Apocalypse

Sometimes I look forward to the apocalypse. It’s probably because I spend a lot of time reading The Walking Dead late at night and it’s warped my sensibilities. The emptiness. The desolation. The terror. It all seems so appealing after a day of Christmas shopping.

However, I’m worried that when it does happen, somehow the experience will be ruined by social media. Imagine our first responses as a zombie plague erupts. Facebook updates: ‘Party cancelled. Zombies at door. Lol.’ Twitter: #eatingmyfaceoff. Snapchat: a final and desperate bombardment of indecent exposure. I will probably write a stupid blog about it.  

And then the actual media will get stuck in. Our final days of television viewing before the technological meltdown will be filled with idiocy. Nelson Mandela’s death brought every megalomaniac and narcissist who had ever been within a continent of the great man into the media spotlight to proclaim that they had led him merrily on a dance to freedom.  As the world ends, our politicians will have one last chance to show how brilliant they are. David Cameron can tell us what a terrible tragedy it all is, but also that it was definitely not his fault, and that actually we should be blaming the previous government, who put the economic policies in place to encourage viral outbreaks. Michael Gove can blame teachers, but obviously not himself, because he went to Eton. 

As an indication that wiping humanity out is most likely a good thing, we can watch interviews with minor celebrities who are struggling to say the word apocalypse, but hope it doesn’t spoil the next series of Strictly. My final image as undead hands scrape at the door might be Louis Walsh spouting about Boyzone, because he didn’t understand the question, so he’s just taking one last shot at self-promotion. Horrible.