Them scientists have been at it again. Mary Shelley was right. T
hey start off trying to find a cure for bad dress sense, but the next thing you know, they’ve been cutting up dead people and sewing them back together again to create a monster ready to do their bidding or, worse, create the perfect, bland, celebrity presenter for entertainment-lite Saturday night television shows, free from the possibility of ageing, asking for a pay rise, or having Operation Yewtree knocking on the door.
How long will it be until some fearsome beast staggers on to our screens with the stitch marks still visible on its neck, its face carefully pulled into a patronising grin to bestow upon another contestant lurching forward to wow the judges with their dancing goldfish? Or cluttering up our screens advertising frozen food purveyors in commercials extolling cut-price prawn rings?
Anyway, these scientists have announced that in only two years time they’ll be looking for candidates for the world’s first head transplant.
This is what happens when you don’t keep an eye on this lot. They’re suggesting lopping heads off and sticking them on fit, healthy donor bodies with gaffer tape or something and – bingo! –Bob’s still your uncle, unless there weren’t any male specimens available, in which case, hello Auntie Roberta.
Obviously, there are advantages to this. For one thing, I chucked WeightWatchers in the bin and started obsessively tagging the where-abouts of Angelina Jolie. Seriously, what’s the point of a diet if you can just get yourself a new body? Loads of folk already tell me I look like Angelina in a certain light, if you count complete and utter darkness as “a certain light”.
Mind you, would my ageing noggin really welcome having to look after a twenty-year-old body again? Would those sprightly kidneys and that shiny liver not start demanding to go out on the batter and tripping the light fantastic when, really, the old brain just wants to go to bed with a good book?
And it’s your entire head they transplant. What sort of future have we to look forward to where everyone looks teen below the chin, but the head sticking out of the collar looks like one of those giant tortoises lurching about the Galápagos trying to find a mate?
Strong skin protection
Oh, hold it, just clocked the ad for Iceland. The transplanted heads are here already. Mind you, that was a prototype. I’m not sure what they used for skin, but I believe it was the same stuff The Yorkshire Husband bought to treat the garden decking. One thing’s for sure, that lad’s surface won’t crack in direct sunlight and he’s free of the fear of a wood mildew attack.
Never mind the Romulans, just spare us from these alien beings
And just when the world needs good people, another one ups and leaves. I feel like I’ve grown up with Leonard Nimoy, and not just because my husband’s family nickname is Spock, or the Vulcan.
He got the nickname not only because he’s pretty bright but also because he maintains a Vulcan-like calm in the face of his wife’s Kirk-like behaviour.
You know what I mean. There they were on the bridge, just the two of them, and some alien would pop up and Kirk would take one look, decide he didn’t like the cut of this galactic planet-gobblers jib and slam two photon torpedoes into its coupon, then turn to his Science Officer, and snap, “Analysis, Spock?”
Spock would sigh and explain he couldn’t analyse anything since the object in question had now been blasted all over the Queradius 7 Nebula cluster, Captain.
Well, that’s me and him when I try to cope with self-assembly furniture.
Nimoy himself embodied the good part of Starfleet, the inclusiveness, the intelligence and the humanity, when they weren’t blowing aliens up, that is.
The Westboro Baptist Church is the diametric opposite of that great spirit. A vile bunch of low-IQ, banner-waving, walking hate-plukes permanently ready to pop and spew venous pus over people they don’t like, which is just about everyone not in the Westboro Baptist Church.
They’ve made it their business to give God a bad name by picketing the funerals of people they believe are heading for damnation because they are gay, or liked gay people, or possibly passed gay people in the street.
They decided to picket Nimoy’s funeral. They got lost. I swear I heard the ghost of a Vulcan laugh.
Making plans for Nigel
Oh please tell me there is a future where Nigel Farage has another near-fatal accident and the only body available to save his life has been gallantly donated by some noble, courageous immigrant who came to this country to study medicine and help the world? Or better...a lovely, luscious, large lady of Caribbean ancestry.