The Day the World Failed to End by Mark Palmer
9th June 1985 was meant to be a momentous day in Earth’s history. If the predictions were true however, there would be no-one left to scribble down a few notes about what happened. That’s because the world was meant to end.
Except, it didn’t.
Not a hint of trouble. It wisnae even slightly windy.
Myself and two friends had sat for most of the afternoon on the steps of the war memorial waiting for it to happen. At least, I think it was two friends. It may have been one. When the future of the world is at stake, the human mind can be selective about which facts it stores for later. It stands to reason. You’ve got to conserve brain space in case you need to remember the combination to disarm a bomb or such like which an evil mastermind has planted at the earth’s core.
Sitting on the cold steps of the war memorial, I wasn’t particularly sure how it would happen. Maybe it would be a huge fireball. Right there on the village green. Just in front of where the old boys from the British Legion lay their wreaths every year. Maybe an earthquake. I could picture a fireball more easily than an earthquake though. Being consumed by fire seemed somehow more ‘end of the world’ than falling into a crevasse.
Oddly enough, I somehow felt that if the world did end, Scotland would still be there. I had no difficulty imagining a Godzilla-like monster rampaging through Manhattan, ripping up buildings and swatting bi-planes. I could even stretch to a tidal wave washing Tokyo off the map. Somehow though, I couldn’t imagine panic on the streets of East Lothian. Scotland would endure. Of that I was sure. The 14 year old me just couldn’t contemplate a world without Dougie Donnelly, Arthur Montford and Weir’s Way.
Let’s face it. If anyone survived, they would need some cultural icons. ‘Up go the heads’ and all that.
As I sit here in 2008, the internet reveals that the end of the world in 1985 was meant to be caused by Armageddon starting in ‘a valley on the Alaskan Peninsula’. All a bit vague. At the time I didn’t really give much consideration to exactly why the world would end or whose fault it was. That was easy. Like any Scottish child of the 80’s, I blamed Maggie Thatcher.
After all, anyone evil enough to steal school kid’s milk was a nap for starting a world ending conflict.
About two and a half hours passed and nothing happened. Not a fireball. Not even a spark. Stomachs rumbled. A shuffling of feet occurred as the observers of the world’s demise started to wonder what was for their tea.
It was probably chips. Was it not always something with chips in the 1980’s? In many ways, a good plate of egg and chips would have been an entirely satisfactory foundation upon which a boy could face oblivion.
Like any group of 14 year olds awaiting the end of the world, there was a tough decision to be made. Was the end of the world really going to be spectacular enough to justify a hiding from your ma for being late for your tea.
‘I’ll come in for you efter ma dinner then’.
‘Aye.’
We walked away from the war memorial. By the time tea was served, the world had still not ended.
By the time I’d had my pudding I’d forgotten all about Armageddon.
