2022. Trump still sits in the White House. ‘My goodness, this is very irregular,’ say the Democrats. This is the future. This is all there is.

#SCORPIO: No.

#SAGITTARIUS: You wake up to arms grabbing you from within the bed. They pull you down into the mattress, past the last of the light, the cotton pushing the air from your body.

The year is 2028. Coronavirus has been eradicated from the population. Manchester is still in lockdown.

YOU LOOK BACK ON 2020. BLIMEY, YOU SAY, I’M GLAD THAT’S OVER. IN THE DISTANCE, OVER THE HILL, THUNDERING TOWARDS YOUR DOOR, SCREAMS 2021. BUCKLE UP, IT SHOUTS, 2020 WAS NOTHING.

WE’LL REST WHEN WE’RE DEAD. IN BETWEEN THE SCREAMING.

2025. Trump stands on a hidden beach, shouting tweets towards the ocean. His large adult sons stand behind him, telling him it is being retweeted. He will never die, he spends eternity on the sand.

ALL SIGNS: A man you don’t know will tell you to cheer up today. Or that you look nice. Or just any fucking thing that you didn’t want or ask for him to say. The stars will look away while you punch him in the face.

If it helps, this can be your reading for every day of the year.

ALL SIGNS: It is the year 2078. Outside, the world burns. Inside, Drag Race season 13 goes on. And on. And on. This week’s runway is ‘Water Disaster!’ Kandy Muse enters in a badly constructed H2Hoe outfit. She is safe.

#LEO You wake up to James Corden hosting your morning. He hosts you eating breakfast, getting dressed, your work disciplinary, your eight pints alone at home, your passing out in front of Homes Under the Hammer. His cackle haunts your fever dreams. His cackle forever and ever.

2042. The Tories are still in power. None have resigned, not even in death. Their corpses fill the cabinet office. Labour insist, and they really quite mean it this time, that somebody do something about the smell.

2023. The entire UK cabinet consists of Nadine Dorries running from room to room, Doubtfiring it between meetings with a series of outfit changes and wigs.

2025. Boris Johnson decimates a living pig during a rare One Show appearance, screaming ‘You can’t defeat me, I will never quit. This pig is you. It’s all of you’. Surely this is the last straw, the nation says. But Johnson has eighty more pigs and years of airtime left to fill.

There is no future worth telling.

2050. Twitter is Musk. Musk is Twitter. Merged. Incomprehensible. Tweeting his jokes. Local children visit, daring each other to get closer before running away. He tweets his jokes. The thousands of souls trapped inside laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh and

ELON MUSK: Today brings friendship in unlikely places and they are all definitely your friends. Don’t read too much into their mean posts, it’s just jokes. Friendly jokes. You are cool and liked and good at posting.