Cars hate us. They resent our misuse of them, our abuse of them, our fuel-injected swearing when our journey snarls up. Like today.

Stuck. Stationary. Stranded. These things we call automobiles are increasingly auto and decreasingly mobile. I await a mechanic who once knew how to mend every nut, bolt & fuse of his patients, but now, in a computerised world, his monkey wrench is as helpful as an anvil.

He’s here early, even though this is no emergency. His pleasant nature will offset his ability to fix my car and get me going. But it will be beyond him. So, I weigh up how long to leave it before I say ‘it’s fucked isn’t it’. I hold back and imagine my morning’s journey by pony and trap, but the dream sours when the wheel rolls off, tap-tackling the pony who ends up lame and has to be put down. Must stop this dark-day-dreaming.

If the future of travel is our legs, then the future of destination is omnipresence.

Science says it will. Commuting and journeys will dissolve as we inhabit space, place and experience without actually ever being there. This is where we’re heading. Exactly where we’re standing.

Eight billion Dr Who-a-likes giving each other just enough elbow room. Welcome to the outdoor Tardis.


Dear London,

Stop, please stop. You’re shrinking by the day, can’t you see? That’s your own tail you’re gagging on, yet you ram it further down your throat, despite its indigestibility. You’re lower a Rat Snake. At least it has the dignity to swallow two thirds of its body first before it dies. You carry on like a moneyed Mr Creasote.

We’d like to laugh but we can’t. It’s so sad, we can’t bear this delusional self harm. With every month that passes another ordinary London family is ousted from the square mile they grew up in. The rate of appreciation is as crass as KLF burning £1m in a derelict Scottish castle.

So, London, what happens next? Do you want a population made up of middle aged, middle-classes, punctuated by Russian & Chinese oligarchs? Spare a thought for the schools who’ll have no children to teach. Then again, old red brick schools make many a million quid loft apartments.

What’s that? A whimper for help, disguised as a retch?

Ok, there is hope. Self-cannabilization is like any other eating disorder. One you come to terms with it there is a way to stop.

The abolition of estate agents.

Yes, not one or two but the whole fucking industry feeding off the bricks and mortar greed within the capital. It’s a self-regulated sham, ranking lower than arms, drugs and prostitution on the trust scale. Ok, so 550,000 out of work isn’t exactly a shot in the arm for the economy, but when that arm is mainlining the sterling equivalent of uncut crystal meth, it’s time to amputate.

Pass the chainsaw Nurse Ratchett.