Future Daze 1 - Staying With Uncle Keith

It was early in the evening.  Keith sat watching the news on the old Galaxy tablet he had bought from a charity shop and kept on the living room coffee table.  The Prime Minister was coming across the tarmac from an aeroplane.
"Prime Minister," the reporter asked, "what are you going to do about the crisis?"
"What crisis?" he asked.
"What do you think has happened to the economy, Prime Minister?"
"There is a recession.  The word crisis is too strong."
"Unemployment is rising.  Inflation is in double figures for the first time in a hundred years.  The national debt is so high the World Bank are threatening to pull the plug.  Millions of people have had their benefits stopped.  Isn't this a crisis, Prime Minister?"
"I've always believed in the welfare state and the National Health Service.  That is just part of the British way of doing things.  We seek to get rid of waste in Universal Credit."

 

Keith answered a knock on the door.  It was a young man holding two matching suitcases.
"I'm your cousin Michael," said the young man.
"What are you doing here?  I haven't seen you for years."
"The dole say you're my blood relative."
"What does that mean?"
"I went to claim Universal Credit.  They gave me a DNA test.  They told me I wasn't entitled to any benefits because I have a relative with a spare room."
"How do you know I have a spare room?"
"The Energy Performance Certificate shows the number of bedrooms the house has.  There's only one National Insurance Number registered at this address.  They know that you live on your own in a 2 bedroom house.  That's not allowed."
"I know it's not allowed," said Uncle Keith, "that's why I have to pay bedroom tax."
"You won't have to pay it now, will you?  If you're a pensioner and you've got someone living with you, I'm sure you'll be able to claim Universal Credit."
"A pensioner?  I'm not that old.  I'm 69.  I won't retire for another four years, thank you very much.  You'd better come in," said Keith.  He led Michael up to the spare bedroom.  "There's a bed in here but it hasn't been made.  This is the room where I keep my old junk."  Michael began unpacking his things in the spare bedroom. 

 

Keith continued watching the news.
"How can we have soaring unemployment and soaring inflation at the same time?" asked the interviewer.
"I haven't got a clue."
"You're the governor of the Bank of England and you haven't got a clue?"
"We know that there's a high level of national debt and a high level of consumer debt, we know that the economy has slowed right down, economic growth has gone into reverse and the GDP has dropped by 40%.  What we can't imagine is how inflation can be at 20% at the same time.  If things are that bad prices should be falling, inflation should be negative."

"Do you want any tea?" Keith shouted up the stairs.
"Yes, thanks.  I'll just finish unpacking my suitcases and I'll be down in a minute."  Keith opened two tins of mushy peas and tipped them into a saucepan with a mug of water.  A cheaper alternative to tinned soup.  Michael came down from the bedroom.  Keith took a loaf of sliced bread that had been marked down to 34p because it was out of date.
"I go the supermarket at 11 o' clock, when they close," said Keith, "and get the last loaves of bread.  They sell them for almost nothing."
"Fantastic."  Keith boiled the mushy peas and water for a few minutes and then ladelled them out into 2 bowls.  He put the bowls of soup on the kitchen table and the 2 men sat down to eat.
"There isn't much night life in the village," said Keith.  "There's 2 shops and 1 take away.  How did you get here?"
"Self drive taxi."
"Can you drive?"
"No," said Michael.  "The taxi drives itself."
"Where have you come from?"
"I was working in Sunderland."
"Isn't that expensive?"
"No.  Anywhere in the UK for 25p a mile.  Only £35."

 

Keith got up the next morning at 6AM, ready to catch the train to work.  The cat had pooed on the lino.
"What are you doing here, you crazy old cat?  Who let you in?"  The front door had also been left unlocked.  It was all Michael's fault.  Keith came up the stairs to Michael's bedroom.  Michael was still lying in bed.
"Michael, you didn't lock the front door last night."
"I thought I had."
"Well, you didn't.  You need to give it a bit of a wallop when you close it.  And the cat is not allowed in the house at night.  It goes behind the fire door or it poos on the floor."
"Isn't the cat house trained?"
"It was house trained ten years ago but now it's old."
"Keith, there's something seriously wrong with your front door and there's something seriously with your cat."
"I know but it's my front door and it's my cat, and they were both doing fine before you came." 

 

Keith went into the kitchen.  He saw some people who were sitting at the table and another man who was boiling an egg.  "Who the heck are you?"
"I'm Charlie," said the man who was boiling the egg.  "We're homeless.  The front door opened with a little push, so we came in."
"Oh, did you?"
"Yes, we did.  It was cold.  Haven't you got any decent food?  I risked my life, burgalling this house.  You might have hit me over the head with a heavy object and fractured my skull.  All we've had for breakfast this morning is boiled eggs and toast and silly little sardine sandwiches."
"The sardines are for the cat.  You've taken the cat's sardines."
"Is this all you have to live on?" asked Charlie.  The young woman, who was sitting with two other men at the table, opened her purse.
"We don't want to be your enemy," she said, "we want to be your friend.  Here's £20.  Buy yourself a joint of meat."
"Yeah," said Charlie.  "Buy something that's actually worth knicking."  Keith opened the kitchen window and shouted loudly,
"Does anybody else want to use my house?  If you're unemployed, you can come and live here.  If your homeless, you can walk straight into my kitchen and get yourself something to eat."

The homeless people left the kitchen.  Keith could have called the police but what would have been the point?  Only a small amount of food had been stolen.  The homeless woman had paid for anything they had used with 5000% interest.  Keith picked up a disposable scrub bud and a squirty bottle of disinfectant to clean up the cat's mess.  He then washed his hands thoroughly with a big bar of soap.  He made himself some toast with the loaf of bread that still had the 34p sticker on it.  He cut a chunk of margarine from the tin foil packet that lay on the work bench where there was no fridge.  He desperately tried to melt it on the toast that was still warm from the toaster.  He made himself some tea and, instead of milk, took a spoonful from a big white tub of something that looked like Coffee Mate. 

 

This was a working man in 2076.  The basic essentials of survival.  Even the homeless had insulted the Uncle Keith cuisine.  He put some sardines out for the cat, who hurried into the kitchen purring loudly.  The cat got better food than Keith did.  Oh, but better than being unemployed.  If you were unemployed the dole sent you to live with your nearest relative.  Keith thought of his Aunt Peggy.  Didn't want to live with her.  Best leave the dirty dishes in the sink and hurry to the station to catch the train that only ran once an hour.  The train arrived and he opened the door by putting his credit card into the electronic sensor.  Keith would have some sandwiches when he got back.  He worked a four hour day, now that his employer had discovered the new minimum wage.

 

Keith returned to the house in the early afternoon.  Michael was sitting in the kitchen with his pyjamas on, eating toast and drinking a cup of tea.
"Hello Keith," said Michael.
"Hello Michael.  Is this all you've done today?  It's half past two.  Have you only just got up?"  Keith questioned the feeling of indignation he could feel rising within him.  What had Keith done today?  Sat in the office for four hours in case there was any work.  There hadn't been.  Keith had dealt with the problems of a few customers, none of which had taken more than a few minutes.  Could he really be angry with Michael for not having a job?
"Keith, I am looking for a job.  I desperately need to put some food on the table."  Michael pressed the keys on Keith's old tablet which he had been using on the kitchen table.  "I hope you don't mind me using your tablet?"
"No, not at all, Michael, you should be looking for a job."  Michael fingered the screen again and grinned at a picture of a Big Issue vendor.
"I'm going to sell the Big Issue.  This vendor sells one copy of the Big Issue every hour.  He makes £90 a week."
"That's an advert Michael, you won't necessarily earn as much money as him."
"Worth a try, isn't it?  The Big Issue is the most widely read publication in Britain today, not excluding The Sun.  Eight million people read the Big Issue every week.  I haven't seen anybody selling the Big Issue in Edale.  That's what they call a gap in the market."
"Edale is too small.  Maybe you should go to Bamford or somewhere like that."
"Edale's big enough, Keith.  It's expanded.  It's not like it was when we were kids.  There's a whole team of five people selling the Big Issue in Bamford village centre.  There's a market for the Big Issue in Pennine villages.  £90 a week.  Just think what we could do with that.  Buy a fridge.  Fill it with frozen sausages and meatballs.  Buy some new clothes."  Keith looked down at the attractive jumper he wore that was spoilt by the ragged ends of its sleeves.  His trousers were 2 inches too small.  He wore them around his hips, as he could not comfortably use a belt, and he could not afford to replace them.  Could Michael really earn that much selling the Big Issue?  "I'm going to call in at the Big Issue office tomorrow morning," Michael said.  "They advise you to buy 10 copies, in the first instance, and see how long it takes you to sell them.  I could sell 10 copies a day."

 

The next evening Keith met Michael at 10.30 PM when he went to buy bread from the supermarket.
"I've almost made it," said Michael.  "I've been here since lunch time.  I've sold nine copies of the Big Issue today.  Will you buy one and make it ten?"
"Yes, certainly," said Keith.  Michael handed him a copy.  "They're £3.50.  Didn't used to be as much as that."
"They're a proper newspaper now, Keith.  You have to increase the cost when you employ a  team of international journalists."
"I've only got one £3 coin, one 50p piece and some small change.  If I buy the Big Issue, I won't be able to buy any bread."
"You buy my last Big Issue Keith, I'll buy you some bread."  Keith bought the Big Issue and Michael picked up a basket into which he put several loaves of bread.  "What else would you like?" asked Michael.  "Fancy a tin of ham, some meatballs, some pasta, a tin of peas?"
"Great.  Yes, thanks Michael."  Maybe having his long lost cousin living with him wouldn't be such a nightmare after all.