Necker Island – part of what was once the British Virgin Islands, 2047

The warm wafted warmth of a Caribbean paradise Island was their prison. Of course they didn’t realise it was a prison at all. They all thought they had been elected as a world governing elite. We kept the truth from them. It was kinder. Some of us in the world debated whether we should tell them that the armed guards were not actually there to protect these self-worshiping hubristics from the masses and to see that they didn’t harm each other. Of course, the soldiers were all volunteer sociologists on study leave and no weapons were ever loaded. It just looked real enough to show a pretence these egos could relate to. Tony was really old now but still hoping to invade somewhere. James Murdoch wrote a very successful blog which was read worldwide (the world thought it satire.) The Ulster unionists defended the
café at the end of the promenade from the Catholics with gusto and the Greater Israel project had claimed several deckchairs on the beach by putting their towels down early as markers. Vladimir, who was one of the more sensible ones, had devised a logical formula so he could stand for election in perpetuity. Theresa’s mind was nearly gone (no change there then) she played constantly with the beads of her necklace whilst chanting “strong and stable” over and over again. Tommy Robinson was the coordinator. He brought together African dictators and American dicks, Asian despots and European warmongers. He was so proud of his role in uniting all the colours and creeds on the island that irony escaped him. Damascus, the cultural capital of the Middle East. A blend of old and modern and beauty and har
mony. A place that elected more people to the Island than anywhere on earth other than what had been the USA and the UK. The annual ceremony of no politicians was, as usual, a great success. Manchester, green fields recovered the grey of the Rochdale road, fireworks replaced guns on what had been the Gooch. Universal basic income had long ago replaced poverty. Talent was nurtured and allowed to flourish.

It wasn’t all roses and they still had to send teams out to Surbiton and even Hale Barns. Most of us felt sorry for the ego tattered remnants of the patronising middle class but they were fading away ungracefully. Harare, the friendliest city on earth, Copenhagen, the nicest city on earth, New York, the most multicultural. 543 languages spoken here. London the most welcoming city on earth 543 languages spoken properly here.

Moscow, the world museum of poverty, war and borders, a must visit. Everywhere things had changed for the better. How had this happened? What small difference could have changed dystopia into utopia and banished war hunger and poverty forever? One day in 2018 at a Labour party meeting in Rochdale, where the delegates were all using the towns sordid political scandal for their own ends, someone had stood up and said “think about the children. Don’t let anyone who wants power so much anywhere near it. Choose your representatives from a random ballot like jury service and then choose between those people. Keep the power mad away from power.”

It was so simple. The members of the party sat there opened mouthed. There was no applause. Democracy. It was a dangerous idea that politicians hated. It slowly started to infect people. There was laughter and joy as people realised we did not have to vote for those who wanted something out of it. The idea spread. Next to go were the bankers and the lawyers. Unneeded parasites all. They joined the soldiers and arms manufacturers. The Murdochs and the Clintons, the Kinnocks and the Trumps. That was all it took. So simple.