One day in the near future, we’ll all be living with sentient intelligent robots that are capable of fulfilling all our basic day to day needs. This will enable us to carry out free lives, with more free time than we know what to do with.

I will love and cherish my robot and I am going to call him 1908. I know this because 1908 came back from the future, late last night, to tell me.

You’ll have to excuse some of the language in the following, it is necessarily paraphrased in parts as 1908 and I spent most of the time after he arrived last night in a massive psychoactive trance brought about by some mushrooms he found on a siding, whilst travelling between his dimension and mine.

Anyway, on to the story.

1908 and me were going out for the night on one of the orbital stations of the moon and apparently there were a load of professional space-football players just checking in to the nearby hotel. Despite 1908 having these massive visual and sonic sensors, I spotted them first, and was giving him a right good verbal ribbing. In the future I’m apparently not much of a space-football fan, and 1908 just LIVES for it – it’s all he’s interested in! So I spot these space-footballers (first, did I mention?), and one of them, a giant three legged toad-beast from the jungles of Arcturus, gives me a bit of a funny look.

So I go up to him (I mean he might be a famous space-footballer but I don’t care who you are – you should show a little respect?) – and I ask him if he was looking at anything in particular?

If any of you know me, you’ll know I couldn’t possibly take on a normal space-toad, never mind a giant one that plays sport professionally for a living, but this bit made me laugh. Apparently ( in the future) I have genetically and bionically boosted myself to the shape and size of a male walrus – so you can imagine how terrified this poor guy was!

But 1908 knows me better than anyone, and he knew that I was just jerking this guy’s chain, having a laugh. I wouldn’t start a fight with anyone, not really. I had just had a few drinks – that was all.

Regardless, the team doctor comes over, and as you can imagine 1908 is literally DYING of embarrassment. But I’m still laughing to myself inside, even though the doctor is an industrial medical unit and he makes even me look small. He asks me to calm down, and if there ‘is anything going on here’. I decide not to push the point, although I’m tempted to keep the act going, and as I said – I’ve had a few drinks – so it probably seemed funnier than it actually was.

But I apologise to him and say ‘I’ve had a few drinks and actually what I wanted was this guy’s autograph’ – I explain to him that I’m a massive space-football fan.

1908 is stood there next to me pissing himself now, nudges me with his elbow and everything. As it happens this space-toad was the star player’s wife – as I’m looking at what I think is a professional sportsman, I’m actually looking at the most famous WAG in the near galaxy! So she opens her mouth and this big croak comes out – my on-board neuro-translator tells me (in the most feminine voice the little piece of technology is capable of) to ‘Eff off’ and I just went bright red. Like a Betelgeuse Beetroot, apparently.

I just about twig as this point, and I apologise AGAIN looking all sheepish now. The massive medical unit is standing there looking all condescending, tapping his right drive-actuator on the floor and glaring at me with his transponder-probes crossed. 1908 is stood there hiding his face – trying his best not to giggle.

The cheeky bastard floats away as fast as he can, leaving me stood apologising and doing my best not to look like a complete tool. Apparently I got a right cob-on then, being made to look like a prick in front of these famous types (even though it was all my doing!). That’s the way it goes though sometimes, I’m sure some of you will sympathise with my future self!

Next thing you know (by all accounts) I stomp off (proper childish hissy fit!), and angrily whack my giant robotic walrus tail against the space-glazing, cracking it through. Within three minutes all living creatures (including me) on the orbital station are functionally brain-dead – completely starved of oxygen – and the fusion reactor de-stabilised causing a massive implosion and a local catastrophic inversion of matter.

To top it all off, the game went ahead (even though one side was down to a bare-bones team), it was a score draw, and 1908 went on to be the single winner in the Pools that week, scooping 19 trillion space dollars!

Can’t wait until the future now, sounds like such a laugh.

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