Book review : Fairyland by Paul J McAuley

So I think some fuck kicked my car door the other day. Im furious. I dont go around jumping on other peoples cars so what the fuck? And you know what the worst thing is? I think it was me. I hate me of the past, he's always getting me od the now in trouble. Thankfully its just the old Lude not the Alpine that got stomped, as the Frogmobile is made of the same stuff they make shopping bags from only with 90% of their structural rigidty removed (it gets all soft and melty on hot days, can you believe that? Those crazy French, I hear theyre working on a new flying vehicle that doesnt use wings but floats under a bag filled with hot air! It all sounds like a lot of hot air to me!!! Geddit!? HA HA HA!! HA! Ha?) but still, sometimes me of the past goes too far.
'One day me of the past', I say, 'one day long ago Im going to get you and then you will have been sorry'.
English doesnt have the tenses for time travel, but thats something for the doubledomes to sort out. What I, or at least future me will have to do is a lot less complicated; just organise the time machine. From my reading I know that in certain circumstances for example in the presense of a rotating Tipler cylinder light cones can plot a negative diraction on the time axis of a spacetime diagram therefore allowing access to the past. I dont know how Future Me is going to get a Tipler cylinder as my Paypal account is fucked but he'd better find a way. I wonder if I should punch myself in the chest so he knows who's boss, I cant have both past and future me's screwing me about. Future Me thinks he's so big in his silver tinfoil hat and flying car, lording it up in the future like thers no tomorrow.
I was going to tell you a drug story from the other night but all drug stories are boring as shit unless you were there arnt they? My exquisite bathos is your weapons-grade tedium. You see Fairyland, replete with impish figures and talking animals, I see a row of derelict shop fronts and a comfortable-looking pile of garbage. MDMA stories are just like poorly transcribed versions of those lame low-rent nightmares that result from sleeping with socks on, the only differenece being this dream has three participants so you know you cant even just kill everyone or fly off to escape. You know the dreams ones where you arnt being chased by monsters, but instead have to wade through a gelatinous sea of irritating hassles mixed with random scraps of memory. I dunno, perhaps youre in town and you realise youve left your overdue DVD of Seaquest DSV at home and have to go back for it, only you realise youve lost your keys and youre really late, and that youve forgotten what youve forgotten and that for some reason youve got no trousers on and on and on and ahhhhhhhhhhhhh. I just wish I could forget jumping on my car.