Since I first saw The Road Warrior on the big screen at the tender age of (about) ten, I’ve been in love with stories about post-apocalyptic adventures. Something about the idea we’re going to blow ourselves to hell and the few hardy survivors of our race will be doomed to make the same mistakes in a future jerry-rigged together from the scraps of our disposable culture simply resonates with me. I have a famously dim view of human nature and this is a genre built on dim views of human nature.
Not only does humanity bring the world to the brink of oblivion but, with the social contract brushed aside in a maelstrom of decay, people begin to feed on each other. Stories about the thin veneer of civilization being ripped away simply tickle my gloomy bone.
I think in the middle ages I would probably have belonged to a doomsday cult or have been a wandering bard preaching the approaching Day of Judgement. You could argue I already belong to a doomsday cult. A weekly feature of the community radio show I used to co-host was The Apocalypse Watch where we’d report on all the news of the day which suggested we were about three degrees from the world going Mad Max on us. Most of the stories were climate change and oil related—little indications the thundering machine is about to sputter and stop— and I loved every minute of it.
Of course, really, to be honest, I probably just want to wear buttless chaps, a feather boa and a pink mohawk and ride a motorcycle with a Vince Neil ladyboy chained to the backseat.