It was half-past eleven on a Tuesday morning, and the ephemeromorph populated House of Commons was already in full lunatic mode. The benches stank of warm gin, chaptalised bat’s urine and disinfectant wipes. A maniacal Minister with the eyes of a demented cracked iguana was screaming that transgenderism was the “gateway drug to a cybernetic apocalypse.”
He was right in one sense, they all knew it, though they’d never admit it.
Transhumanism, transgenderism, the whole bloody lot of it, boiling down to one primal fact — the human body is now just a fucking beta-test product. Parliament, however, is still running on Windows 95.
Sir Colin Jenkem, Minister for Digital Regulation, had been foaming for twenty minutes, waving a stapler like it was one of those fake holy relics.
“This is an embuggerance! First they ask for hormones, then they’ll ask for chrome-plated nipples that shoot Wi-Fi across Kent. This is the slippery slope! One moment it’s gender, the next it’s downloadable genital slurry.”
The chamber howled. MPs beat the benches with sweaty fists, baying like zoo chimps on ketamine.
Jacob Rees-Mogg rose up from his usual relaxed lying down position like a Victorian skeleton resurrected by some necronomicon infused black magic and tried to table an amendment to “Ban robot lesbians from operating heavy machinery.”
Across the room, a Labour backbencher was shrieking into a vape pen: “You fools! AI agents are already in our homes, mapping our bathrooms. Infinite Context Windows means they know when you wipe! Gender is just the first line of code, next comes Artificial Superintelligence with tits!”
The Speaker attempted order, banging his insignificant little hammer as though it could contain the fever. But by then it was too late, Parliament had devolved into a pit fight of red-faced lizards, guzzling taxpayer claret and hallucinating about cyborg drag queens storming Dover.
And somewhere, in the shadows, the real bastards were watching.
Lobbyists with titanium briefcases, hedge fund men with recursive self-improvement stitched into their Rolexes, already placing bets on who would win the great war between biological sex and downloadable upgrades.
Outside, in Parliament Square, a confused Japanese tourist asked what was happening. A policeman leaned against a bollard, his moustache twitching, and muttered:
“What’s happening, sir, is the end of the human race, live, on BBC Parliament. And they’ll still try to claim expenses for it.”
What kind of a frickin genius writes this stuff? Brilliant!