By James Leavey
Several years ago I read an article about a man who went potholing in
New York State, during the course of which he dropped his hammer down a
hole - and never heard it land. He went on to claim that NYC is
standing on a huge geological fault which one day, no doubt the result
of a huge earthquake, will swallow the Big Apple whole and spit out the
pipsqueaks.
Not long after, I read H.P. Lovecraft's novel, At the Mountains
of Madness, in which a 'scientific' expedition to Antarctica
discovers a range of mountains taller than the Himalayas, behind which
are the cyclopean ruins of a deserted city built by an alien race
500,000 years ago. It sounded a lot like the Bronx.
It seemed fitting to me that a city like New York, which embodies all
the best and worst that mankind can aspire to, should be suddenly
plunged into the bowels of the Earth, and then re-emerge after eons,
perhaps when McDonalds no longer inhabit this planet.
So what would future visitors think, looking at all those weathered
empty skyscrapers, diners and crack houses?
Sad bastards, is a phrase that comes to mind.
Then there was that fad, encouraged by the BBC TV children's
programme, Blue Peter, to leave a time capsule for future generations. I
remember as a young child placing some marbles, a toy soldier, a wild
Woodbine, and a short note in an otherwise empty cigarette box, and
burying it in my garden.
What I didn't know then but alas know now is that there is the
possibility, at least according to the BBC TV series, 'Space, our
final frontier', that everything we know and nurture may someday be
ingested by a roaming Black Hole, rather like a plateful of fries
gobbled by an overweight Californian who has decided to nip across
America for the chance of a puritan-free smoke.
Meanwhile, according to the BBC, it seems that not only is the Earth
under constant threat from meteorites and stray asteroids, but the whole
of our solar system is spinning round our galaxy, just looking for
trouble.
So much for the time capsules.
In fact, watching that BBC series closely, the Beloved Wife and I
decided to do away with ourselves: as a suicide in the bush is better
than two comets out of the sky. But we've decided against it, for the
time being, on the grounds that it would upset our cat (we'd have to
take her with us) and bloodstains are difficult to remove from TV remote
controls.
It seems to me that the only hope mankind has for its long-term
survival, and it's pretty remote at present, is the new Star Wars
system supported by President Bush. The trouble is, it's rather like
that Doomsday device which acts as the McGuffin in Stanley Kubrick's
film, Dr Strangelove, or How to I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love
the Bomb. What a pity that America's 21st century
Doomsday machine will be pointing at targets on the Earth, and not
towards the real menace from outer space. Maybe its first target should
be the White House sometime over the next year or so, as that will save
us a lot of grief.
On that cheerful note, I shall ignite a Montecristo No.2 and pour
myself another large slug of Oban whisky. I've promised the Wife not
to watch re-runs of the BBC series that depressed us so much, although
we'll probably end up watching the 'Aliens are among us' series on
Discovery Channel, for a laugh. Tomorrow I'm going back to South
London to dig up that box and replace my note with something more
appropriate, "You don't know me, and now you probably never will".
As for the chances of my making it to the next column, I don't want
to think about it.
