Still

I was thinking that I should do my bit as a patriotic consumer unit and do some consumption right away, so I decided to splurge up a load of hard tinsel on some tech. I was going to get one of those hand-held electronic-paper book readers but I found that I could replicate the experience faithfully by reading a normal paper book through a toilet-roll tube.

So, instead of that, I thought I'd get me a mammoth-screen home cinema experience. I asked for the biggest screen that exists. They showed me a wide-screen monster plasmotron that has its own time-zone but it still wasn't big enough. So then they introduced me to the latest thing - PixelPaint by Panasonic. With this stuff, I painted an entire wall to become a giant screen the size of a house. It cost a bomb - but it was worth it for the complete televisual immersion - like diving into a warm bath of multicoloured glowing tellybeans.

Well, with this, I had also to get proper content. Content, yeah? I needed contehehnt. It's all about con'eehehehehehnt. So I got the latest. A brand new Sky Phatbox IV. It's totally membrane, totally digitally membrane. It comes complete with a year's subscription to 'Sky Displacement' - the most absorbing channel there is. Also, it's got this amazing automated recording ability on a hard disk that comes with a 'near-queue' for today's programmes and a 'far-queue' for the rest of the month. It's great, whenever I turn it on, it announces "far-queue, far-queue" in a robotic voice.

Well, if that were ever to weary me, it also comes with a shuffle button - like on CD players. That means I can set it to automatically switch over channels randomly every few minutes. I don't even have to bother myself by pressing a button on the remote control - it does it for me - presenting my face with an endlessly changing kaleidoscopic array of twenty-four hour TV tubejecta. It forms it's own primary-coloured narrative of semi-cognisant streel and I don't need to move a muscle.

In fact, it's better than that. I've blended a dozen catering packs of spicy scalpsalt-flavoured 'Doritos' with a vat of sun-dried scabdip into a thick gunky fluid which sits in a big tub next to me. In another tub, I've got a few dozen litres of bright pink generiberry-flavoured hydrogenated sugar-boosted dog's-milk shake. With a a tube from each going to either corner of my mouth, I don't have to take my eyes of the good-watchin' for a second - or even move at all to lap up my tellysnack.

And why stop there? Here's me moving my own eyelids like a sucker when the whole blinking business could be automated. So, I've stuck open my eyes with sticky tape and got a couple of pipettes filled with eye-drop solution strapped to my head which steadily drip tear-solution into my eyes and let my ducts just kick back that little bit easier. And I know what you're thinking - sure, I sound pretty comfy but what about that whole breathing gig? Who bothers with all that in-out-in-out effort these days when there's the leisure envelope to stretch to the max. Well, I got it figured. I've rigged up some scuba breathing apparatus, flipped over the demand valve and set it to a timer, so now I get my air pumped directly into me without even wearing out my lung muscles.

Oh, and it goes without saying that the question of voiding waste is pretty straightforward. I put in a rubber sheet under the pillows and basically I just sit in my own filth.

Man, I have it sorted. Like this, I can remain in a completely motionless conscious unconsciousness for hours. If I could be bothered to move my mouth, I could give a wry smile to the second law of thermodynamics and enter a state of absolute minimum entropy and still be entertained up my head for days. I like to call this a state of optimised entrotainment.