Ideas Inc.

I had been lying on my bed for the last eleven hours, my head pounding. I needed an idea. A thought. Just one. All it had to be was a nugget of something new, something original. Never in the history of mankind had ideas ' good ideas - become so common. Before, in days of old, only the chosen few were able to realise their ideas, make them flesh. They were the great and good, revered for their imagination, energy and resolve, creating paintings, that stirred the soul, awe-inspiring architecture that would humble the mightiest of emperors, feats of engineering that took the breath away, music that unearthed long-forgotten emotions¦
Now, any ordinary Joe could produce his masterpiece - a feature film replete with mesmerising special effects or a song woven from the magic of two full orchestras. All anyone needed was something like the Imagitron 3000, and he wouldn't need to leave his bedroom.
It made me sick.
I had been born to create. Unlike those moronic slobs who max out their credit cards on 'creation suites' ready to upload their latest ode onto the internet, now a vast, cavernous sewer bloated with countless turds of imagination. They had no reverence for the creative process, for the pain of giving birth to something that you could call your own ' an idea that no other human had ever thought of before (or at least, never got round to putting down on paper). They worked nine-to-five in their desk farms, being told what to do all day before coming home and churning out mindless crap devoid of any soul.
Just as I was about to jack the whole thing in, ready to succumb to that favourite adage of the eternal loser ' If you can't beat 'em join 'em! ' it hit me like an oversized blowfish slapping me in the face.
It was an idea, and it was original, I was certain. Unique. New. Never-before-seen.
It was a story about a Ukranian Pumpkin farmer with a nervous tick and his troop of performing asthmatic lizards, fighting against the tyranny of evil land developers. I leapt off the bed towards the console and tapped my idea into the online Ideas Directory. The little cursor spun round and round as it waited for the search to finish, tormenting me in my moment of desperation.
'Come on!' I screamed. It was never this slow.
Finally, the cursor stopped spinning. A red message in bold filled most of the screen. It read:
THANK YOU FOR YOUR ENQUIRY. WE ARE PLEASED TO INFORM YOU THAT YOU HAVE AN ORIGINAL IDEA. AS REQUIRED BY THE IDEAS ACT (2008), YOU MUST ATTEND YOUR LOCAL IDEAS INC. OFFICE WITHIN THE NEXT THIRTY MINUTES AND REGISTER THIS IDEA IN PERSON.
SHOULD ANOTHER PERSON PRESENT THIS IDEA TO US BEFORE THE DEADLINE, YOU WILL FORFEIT ANY RIGHTS TO IT.
REGARDS ' IDEAS INC. (A PUBLIC PRIVATE PARTNERSHIP LIMITED BY GUARANTEE WITH HM GOVERNMENT)
I quickly scanned the small print underneath (I had to bring three forms of ID and a urine sample) and grabbed my coat. I was still in my underwear, but what the hell ' this idea could make or break my future. A little fashion / social faux pas was nothing in comparison.
As I hurried to the bus stop, I calculated the time it would take to get to the Ideas office. If a bus turned up now, I could just about make it. Ity would go straight into town and drop me off by the cenotaph. That was about three minutes' walk from where I wanted to be.
No sign of a bus, though. Damn!
I searched in vain (in both directions, for some odd reason) for a glimpse of something in the distance that would signify the arrival of my transport, but no such luck.
There was no other option ' I had to steal a car. There was a nice, blue Peugeot opposite me, and even though I swore never to stoop to such a level again, I was desperate. The boys in prison had been great at describing the intimate details of carjacking, but I'd never thought I'd catch myself actually doing it.
Within five minutes, I was hurtling along the A349a in my newly-acquired transport. It felt nice to drive, and almost gave me the thought of thinking up a new idea, but I stopped myself. One idea at a time! I had to cling tightly to the idea that I had, as if it was my one and only child who would die if I lessened the grip.
I parked up outside Ideas Inc. (Falmouth branch) and shot past reception ' the man at the desk barely noticing me. Up to level 7 ' I knew it all too well. Here I would realise my dream of owning my first idea. Hopefully, the first of many. They say that the first one registered leads to many more afterwards.
As I stumbled out of the lift, my heart sank ' a snaking line of people all queuing up to register their ideas turned to look at me. I would never, ever get to the clerk in time.
'Oh Furgle Murtid!' I cried. Slumping to the floor, my spirits were crushed.
'As I did so, an attractive girl approached me, smiling. Maybe things were looking up.
'Hi,' she said
'Hi,' I muttered, wallowing in self-pity.
'My name's Derina,;
'Hello Derine,' I forced a smile. 'What ' er ' can I do for you?'
'Um ' I just came over to say that Furgle Murtid is a registered expletive. My dad invented it. You need to have a licence, but I can arrange for a one to be sent to you¦retrospectively of course. The annual fee is six hundred and eighty one pounds,'
'Really?' I had had enough of this crazy world I lived in.
'Including VAT.'
'Brilliant ' you idea Nazis are bloody everywhere,'
'Well. That's all well and good, but what do you want to do?'
'What do I want to do?' I mused sarcastically. 'How about smack you in the face?'

Two years later, they let me out early for good behaviour. Not a bad time spent, I thought. Now I was equipped with the knowledge of how to disable burglar alarms, as well as how to forge twenty pound notes. Life looked promising.
Not only that, but my time locked away had given me the opportunity to think. And think I did.
You see, I had this idea.
It was about this guy, who was desperately trying to think of an original idea¦