"Mum?" I repeated, as a convenient way to get back into the story.
"Captain, I have located the subject." My mum was speaking in a strangely metallic voice as though she was wearing a trash can for a muzzle, or had nicked Stephen Hawking's voicebox and was having a go of it. Before I had a chance to settle on my preferred metaphor I was scooped up by two giant mechanical arms, my tiny legs wriggling in vain like I was peddling an air bicycle and even though it was an imaginary bike I still wasn't very good at it and would have crashed it into someone with the power of a training-wheeled fart if I wasn't held up like a Transformers version of "Circle of Life". The mechanical arms raised me three metres into the air and I was able to assess the metal behemoth that had a hold of me - a towering meccano robot with an unnerving latex replica of my mum's head perched awkwardly on top like an egg on a blender.
"What's going on here? Where am I? What's happened to mum?" I asked Tim Burton's interpretation of my mother.
MecHelen replied through an awkward animatronic mouth, "We have now completed operation 1032 - find the Angus Diamond child. You disappeared in the year 1990, and no doubt assume it is the year 1992. It's actually the future, idiot - the year 3128. We call it the future - we're cool like that. The rudimentary survival abscess chamber you assembled -"
"You mean this hole?"
"Yes, this hole, as you call it, has enabled you to successfully sleep through an entire ice age unscathed and conveniently unaged, you thawed little peach. The world you left is no more - you and a chicken are the only remaining survivors, and together you must repopulate the world. I'm just fucking with you! It's pretty much the same as the world you left, except all vehicle tyres have been replaced by high-powered industrial fans in order to make them levitate and, because this plan was implemented without any research apart from watching Back to the Future II, none of our cars work anymore unless you're trying to titillate the asphalt with a gentle breeze. Incidentally, duct taping all of the air conditioners from our houses onto the axles of cars prevented both the car and the fan from being used and solved global warming in a turn of events worthy of an Ernest movie. Also, everything has bluetooth connectivity. No-one really knows what that means but scientists are fairly sure it's an advanced form of lactose intolerance. There is no known cure."
"You had over a thousand years to practice that speech and that's the best you've got? I've read more gripping and impassioned literature on the warning labels of cleaning products - the one for bleach is particularly moving, but that may just be because I injected some into my tear duct. I was a cheeky little junkie toddler, don't judge me robot. Anyway, why are you wearing mum's face? Did the government think it would be comforting to wake up after 1136 years to the image of my mum if she was a stretched grilled cheese sandwich that had two mating tadpoles for lips?"
|File footage - the unnatural steely jaw and soulless jet-black eyes bely her true robotic nature.|
"Good question. I will explain on the way back to our homebase in L.A. - that's future talk for Los Angeles, you'll pick it up."
Robomum began to walk in giant strides as if it was an injured pony who had broken its leg and had it surgically replaced with a dead whale - an endearing club-foot Mick Jagger android.
"When you were abruptly conscripted into the army at the age of 5 your mother read the notice and thought she had finally found you. Two weeks later you were reported M.I.A. and her relief turned to a pile of bitter disappointment, similar to biting into a piece of chocolate cake then realising it's made of carob - her words. She went ballistic - it turns out that all those years of punching the monkey on the internet had actually translated into viable combat experience. Within two weeks she had bitten the head off Kim Jong Il and had ground his bones to make shortbread. Within another ten minutes she had eaten the shortbread. She kicked Russia right in the dick, burned Europe to the ground, pillaged all the chai from India, drank it with them and touched base for a bit then assumed leadership of the world - mamapocalypse had begun.
"Through an advanced process of widespread mindfulness hypnosis she overthrew all governments, but there was never going to be much of an uproar anyway; she had some great policies in place, namely that if she was allowed to run the world she would buy everyone a really nice mug, not to mention the famous 'I have some cream' speech. Anyway, her contributions to the modern world have been invaluable - after an incident with two frogs in a toaster she created the first artificially intelligent robot, an ancestor of myself. She also created a revolutionary torture method utilising discordant reel-to-reel tape decks and a list of chores. Ego-tripping, she strangled the world like a well-positioned car door slowly crushing someone against a fence under the guise of an accident and destroyed all but two cities on earth. All of this was in an effort to find you, Angus Diamond child.
"After her timely death in the year 2104 it was decided that all robots would incorporate her image and speech pattern as a way of honouring her memory, and because there were an abundance of Helen Diamond masks left over in costume shops that now seemed a little distasteful. Ooh, we're here. Welcome to the future! By the way, my name's Rupert."
Rupert lowered me gently to the ground, however my 7 year old legs were still air-cycling and when I hit the tarmac I took off like a brat out of hel[en Diamond's android's arm]. It was all too much to take in, so I ran. I ran so far away. Well, two blocks away, then stopped to smoke a cigarette butt out of the gutter and gazed around like I'd lost my contact lens in the sky in the same way that all tourists seem to.
|The future, obviously taken specifically for this autobiography and not just because I'm a fucking wanker.|
The future was like a fluorescent Cheers, where everything knows your name. Personalised advertisements rattled around the main street utilising a combination of facial recognition and advanced x-ray diagnostics to specifically target you based on your demographic and what particular images or scents made you erect. "Angus Diamond, care to take a look at this year's hottest crayon colours?" No thanks cunt, the only time I've ever used a crayon was to sharpen it into a shank to get revenge on a man who borrowed a raisin off me and never came good on the repayments. "Angus Diamond, why not try on the latest tuxedos for little people?" Fuck off mate, we don't like to be called that - I prefer "pre-teen". "Angus Diamond, how would you like to increase your 16.87 inch penis in order to pleasure her longer?" Probably not, but I applaud you on your accurate pant-scan measurement system. Obviously my substantial penis is sufficient, if not impractical - I might as well be wearing someone else's paralysed tail between my legs, except that it springs into action like a violent lying Dicknocchio. Ladies, please stand clear - I'd hate to accidentally impregnate you from across the room or through a public transport chair.
The pavement lit up below me with an advertisement for Die Hard 87: Die In The Face. John Farnham's reanimated corpse was playing another farewell concert in the theatre next to me. Hipster kids wearing jackets made entirely out of VCRs were riding their hover-scooters around me like irritating 80s mosquitoes. When one clipped my head and shouted "Hey! I'm scootin' here!" I couldn't take it anymore.
"Rupert, I have to leave. This isn't my time. This isn't my life. What has the world become? My mum's hunger for power overcame her hunger for all that is good and all that is food. I need to fix this. Send me back to my time!"
Rupert bent over and patted my shoulder in the way that only a robot mother can. "Keep your voice down. I know a guy, but this is highly illegal and if caught I could be executed with a water pistol to my circuit board. Come with me."
We slunk off in disguise - I dressed as an over sized cat with an enormous limp cock-tail and Rupert, missing the point, dressed as the Joker. We arrived at a nondescript house and Rupert proceeded to do the secret knock to the tune of Kanye West's Gold Digger - security was tight.
The door opened to reveal a monocled mist who introduced itself as Jessica. Jessica ushered us to a back room and sat us down.
"Time travel, is it? 1992, yes? I think I've got just the thing."
Jessica wafted off to the another room and started fumigating through a cupboard. She came back with a pair of giant pants tapering at the ankles.
"These will do nicely. Put them on Angus."
I slid them up and began to notice that I was flitting in and out of existence like a blocked pay-TV porn channel. "What are these?"
"Parachute pants made entirely out of the fabric of space-time. Hold your breath! There's no place like home, and all that shit!"
|Spacetime pants modelled by the late @Sezlink - she's not late anymore, that's why she bought the pants.|
Rupert cried out, "Spread word of me in the past! Make me sound like the second coming of Christ - tell 'em Mary got fucked in the ear by a radio antenna!"
"Of course Rupert! I will never forget you or your ghastly melted face!" I gushed and hugged him, a guise so I could pickpocket his iPhone and sell it to Steve Jobs for a considerable amount of money back in the past.
"Wait, if you're going to change the past then I won't even get made!"
"Then get in my pants and hold me tight! Wait..." I said awkwardly. The pants began to heat up, Rupert jumped in and my testicles fused together into a single perfect glowing orb that served as our headlight on the road to the past.
[to be continued]