While taking an enormous dump, I was suddenly transported to a strange new bathroom. "Bathroom" might be too generous a term. It was a cubicle with a toilet in it. "Well, at least I'm still in the UK", I thought.

I got up and had a look around. It appeared to be a modest dwelling. Lived in. Some throw pillows with a dragon on them looked particularly odd.

I followed the faint sound of some terrible music. I opened the door and there was a girl of about 14 cutting herself. "Oh God. What the hell's going on here?" I blurted out. The girl screamed. "Git de feck outi e'yer" I apologised profusely.

"You see, I was just using the toilet and then suddenly I'm here and...".

"Yer want me ter call de peelers, yer pervert?"

"Police? No. Listen. I don't...you sure have a lot of Manic Street Preacher posters."

"What's it ter yer?"

"Well, it's just...wait, are you on a Manics chatroom?"

"Yeah. De Archives Av Pain"

"This may seem a ridiculous question but what year is this?"

"Two t'ousan'"

"I see. Well, I used to go there myself. 'Nigel'"

"Nigel is 21 years auld."

"No, I know. I was. What's your username?"

"Sara."

"Oh right. That must have taken about five seconds to think of."

While Sara administers some first aid on her arm, I take the opportunity to look around I didn't even know that this many editions of The Bell Jar were published. With her arm now crudely tended to, I try to get some answers.

"So why the cutting?"

"Oi'm louche"

"Sorry?"

"O'IM LOUCHE"

"Forgive me. Maybe it's an accent thing. You're what?"

She spells it. "L-O-U-C-H-E" What's wrong witcha? Don't yer spake English?

"Wait a minute. There's only one person pretentious enough to use the word 'louche'. I know who you are. You're like the only person still on the Manics websites 17 years in the future."

"T'be sure. Oi'm class."

"No, to the contrary. You grow up to be a miserable person."

"That's impossable. Everybody loves me. Matt recently gave me de Forum Fox award."

"There's more to life than physical appearance. Your problem is that you lack empathy. It's the classic sign of a sociopath."

This really makes Sara stop and think. Man, some of these posters sure do look gay. Then she says:

"Dae oi git married?"

"No. I don't even think you've ever had a boyfriend. You claim to be 'asexual', which is kind of funny."

"Dat doesn't soun' fuddie. So oi'm a t'airty year auld virgin?"

"I think so. I mean, I don't get into your personal business but it doesn't seem like the suitors are lining up. And it's tough to determine much from your snarky five word messages."

"What's 'snarky' mean?"

"Cutting."

We both share a laugh. Then I say:

"This music is really bothering me. Can you turn it down?"

"Waaat? Dis is Motown Junk."

"I know. It's awful. Would you mind?"

She rolls her eyes and turns it down. "Dae de Manics ever make it big in America?"

"What? No. Of course not. They're shit. But what difference does it make? The Manics don't give two shits about you."

"Waaat aboyt Richey? Does 'e cum back?

"No. He's long dead. But what does it matter? You think that ###### would have sex with you? Well, actually he probably would at your current age. But forget about that. Just focus on your own life. I mean, look at this shit. You've bought every piece of crappy Manic Street Preacher merchandise that's ever been sold, you're cutting yourself. You've bought into this whole 'MSP' lifestyle that's been packaged and sold by Jews and where does it get you?"

"They ain't Jews. They're from Wales, seem as me."

"I'm talking about the record producers, the PR guys, the management team, et cetera. There's a whole group, a cabal, if you will, of Jews who are putting out this image about how it's cool to be self-destructive and are using these talentless hacks simply for profit. Don't you see how pointless this all is?"

"They're smarter than most bands."

"No, it's all a facade to sell merchandise to dumb kids. I mean look at this. The Stranger by Albert Camus? Have you even read this?"

"Not yet but oi 'ill."

"There's no way. Even without my great knowledge of the future, I can tell you that there's no chance of you ever reading this."

"So de Jews are promotin' de Manics ter drive up sales av De Stranger?"

"Of course not. Although, the people in publishing are overwhelmingly Jewish too. But this is all low-brow, hollow, self-destructive culture. Go out and ride your bike. Learn a new skill. Do something to make yourself interesting."

"Well, oi dae loike wud workin'."

"Exactly. Wood working is a great hobby and particularly suitable for these rural areas."

"Oi cud make a tellyfowun box."

"Sure. A telephone box would be cool. Although, I'm sorry to tell you that in the future, these telephone boxes no longer exist."

"Why's dat?"

"Mobile phones become much more common. Anyway, do what you want but if you carry on as you are, you can look forward to a grim and lonely future. Now if you'll excuse me, I really have to use the toilet."

I walk to this weird toilet room and just barely get my pants off in time. I'm dropping the load of a lifetime when suddenly I'm back in my flat in Glasgow.

I walk to the living room and turn the computer on. "Well, that was certainly an adventure. I can't wait to tell the folks on This is Yesterday about it."

I fire up the forum but it's full of messages by a "Sara". "Wait...she normally posts under a bunch of stupid names. This must be a different person."

I open a message of hers entitled, "Exotic Trip of the Week". I can't believe what I read. A detailed, well-written, interesting post about her recent trip to Cancun. "No, this can't be the same Sara."

Just then my phone vibrates. "What the hell?" It was a notification from an app called "Phone Box". Curious, I go to the developer's page.

"Remember when phone boxes used to be covered with ads for ladies who offer 'special' services? Well, when I realised that phone boxes were dying, I decided to create an app to replicate that experience on your mobile phone! Just tap an ad and you can book a foxy lady within seconds! And remember, I'm not only the creator of this app, I'm also its number one service provider!"

Nervously, I tap on her profile.

"Louche lady available for BBBJ, A-levels, CIM, and Greek stuff. £1500/hour. Out-call or in-house" and there's a picture of Sara. I recognise the arms.

There's a knock on my door. "Oh, God, no." I open the door and am warmly greeted by Sara in what I can only be described as a "harlot outfit."

I say, "I'm really sorry. There's been some confusion. I don't have £1500 for this."

"Don't be ridiculous. If it weren't for yer, oi wouldn't 'av cum up wi' dis multi-million quid idea. Yer nu dat yisser services are alwus free."

"I...umm...really don't...what's 'Greek stuff'?"

"I'll show yer waaat Greek stuff is, yer daft boy."