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"It's got too many buttons," Bernard said irritably, prodding at the remote control at random so that for the next six months the television would automatically change channels every time The Golden Girls came on.
"It's fine, Bernard," Fran said with the reassuring calm of someone who'd persuaded someone else to get digital television so that she didn't have to. "Look, you just push that one, there, and you can scroll with those ones, and –"
Bernard threw it against the wall, where it fell, relatively unscathed, onto a mound of books. "It's too complicated! I'm not a rocket scientist! Come on, let's go to the pub."
Fran set the remote on top of the new flat-screen television that Bernard said looked like it should be on a spaceship, and got her handbag.
***
The problem, Bernard thought three weeks later, after his seventh bottle of red wine that day, was not so much with him as it was with the rest of the world. Everything was moving far too fast these days, that was what was wrong.
Take that – what was it again? "Manny!" It only took a few hollers before Manny poked his head around the door. Bernard suddenly realised he'd had far too much wine; he merely wanted to offer Manny a comb to deal with his beard rather than tear it all off with his bare hands.
"Manny. What's that yoke there?" His gesturing was apparently ineffectual, or else Manny was really as idiotic as he looked.
"It's your television screen," Manny said.
"I know that, what's it doing there?"
"You were trying to put everything in alphabetical order. Well, the books mostly, but you got bored with that."
"There's too many of them. It was totally unfeasible," Bernard nodded. It was all coming back to him now. "So that's why I've put my flat-screen telly on top of the fridge then?"
Manny nodded.
"Right, right," Bernard said thoughtfully. "That seems logical. Thank you, Manny."
It was only after Manny had scurried off that Bernard realised he'd been nice and thanked him. His entire body twitched in disgust. It was never a good idea to encourage Manny. It led to unpleasantness like hugging, and smiling, and being expected to laugh with him rather than at him.
The solution was to be found, he knew, in that eighth bottle of wine. He pulled the cork out with his teeth and poured.
***
After his ninth bottle of wine he found himself glaring at the television again. That sort of thing was what was wrong with the modern world. There was no need for television screens that stretched as far and wide as the eye could see, or for a bajillion channels with nothing but rubbish on them.
He poked the remote control a few times and then suddenly there were naked men on the screen. He squinted, and then poked at the remote again. Nothing happened. He sighed and settled back into the groove he'd eked out for himself in the mess that covered the floor.
***
After Bernard's eleventh bottle of wine, Manny came home from his weekly trip to the cinema where he'd seen something dreadful about a girl who tries to find herself in the big city. At least Bernard thought it sounded dreadful and Manny had apparently been quite moved by it.
"Well, what are you watching then?" Manny asked, sitting down on the half an armchair arm that wasn't covered in month-old bits of toast and jam. He looked at the television and stared at it blankly.
It took Bernard a few minutes to realise that Manny wasn't actually moving. "Oh, for God's sake, what is it?"
"You're – you're – you're watching pornography," Manny said.
"Yes, and, what of it? I'm a, a, moan gran – grown man. I'm a grown man. I can watch whatever I want!"
"But you always say it's for unimaginative wankers!" Manny seemed to be unaware of the single entendre. "You'd rather read a good book, or – "
"Yes, well," Bernard said huffily, as though that was the definitive word on the matter.
"But they're men, Bernard! Men! Two! Doing – things!"
Manny's increasing hysteria was giving Bernard a headache. He passed over the bottle of wine.
***
After Bernard's thirteenth bottle of wine, and Manny's second, Bernard decided that Manny wasn't so bad anymore. He also decided not to voice this opinion. Instead he chose to comment on their viewing material.
"It lacks character development," he said.
"And – plot," Manny said wisely.
"There's plenty of plot! The aliens are making them do it! But they're not letting us know how – how – that guy, that guy, right, we don't know how he feels about the aliens making them do it. Oh sure, he's got his dick out, but men have layers, Manny! We are – onions. That guy there is an onion waiting to be peeled, and they have left him sitting in the supermarket, crying out to be heard."
"'S tragic," Manny mumbled.
"Tragic! Yes! Exactly, Manny, exactly." Bernard beamed, pleased, and then forgot what he was pleased about. "Where's the wine?"
***
After Bernard's fifteenth bottle of wine, and Manny's third, Bernard decided that the positions the men on the telly were adopting were impossible and that it had to be done with mirrors or something.
"It's not realistic," he said scathingly.
"Yeah. Yeah, you're right. Bernard! Bernard! We should make our own."
"Our own pornographic cinematic extravaganza?" Bernard contemplated it. "Manny. You're a genius."
***
Their pornographic cinematic extravaganza was not going to be some cheap run-of-the-mill tawdry trash. Oh no. There would be readings of Proust. And Tolstoy. And classical music. And close-ups of them looking pensive.
"Let the camera see your soul," Bernard directed, the ten-year-old camcorder wobbling in a way that he thought would produce the sensation of gritty realism and avant-garde film-making all at the same time. The viewers wouldn't know what hit them.
Manny pouted, frowned, and gazed into the middle distance. Bernard imagined the speech he would give when he received some award – no, all the awards – for his masterpiece. "Oh, yes, everyone thought Manny was just some bumbling idiot, but I could see his true potential. From the moment I met him I knew he was something special."
He balanced the camera on top of the table as they began the tender-yet-angry-yet-emotionally-conflicted-yet-intellectually-driven-yet-passionate-yet-politically-aware sex scene.
***
When Bernard woke up his head hurt and the inside of his mouth tasted of decomposing otter. This was not unusual. What was more unexpected was the bearded creature curled up next to him.
Bernard was not used to having arms draped across him as he slept. He shrugged it off, and went to the shower to stand fully-clothed under the spray. He could never be bothered going to all the trouble of taking off all his –
Fran shrieked at the same time as Bernard did.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded.
"No clothes! No clothes!" Fran had never looked quite this terrified in her life.
"Oh, you've seen it all before," he said grumpily before remembering that he wasn't actually allowed remember that. "Why are you here?"
"My shower's broken, I thought I'd – Bernard, why aren't you wearing any clothes?"
"I don't know," he said. "Manny probably gave all my clothes to a homeless shelter or something. He's always –"
He trailed off. Manny. There was something to do with Manny that he was forgetting. What was it?
Fran had wandered off. "Oh, you've been making a video! Let's stick that on!" The woman would do anything to avoid an honest day's work, he thought. It was why they were such good friends, even if the thought of watching some tedious home video was less appealing than gnawing on his own leg. Or Manny's.
"It's you!" she cooed. "And Manny! Aww, would you look at –"
She'd already started screaming by the time Bernard remembered.
***
Aliens. It had to have been the aliens. If there was one thing Bernard remembered very clearly from the previous night it was the aliens.
"There's no need to pretend, Bernard," Fran said soothingly, patting his hand. "It's okay. I'm very happy for – for both of you."
She was making them talk about it. Manny was inspecting the cover of a book with immense thoroughness. Bernard was glaring at her. Mostly. It hurt too much to glare all the time, so he was alternating between glaring and lighting up another cigarette.
"It was the aliens!" Manny was taking his side. Good.
"We didn't know what we were doing," Bernard added.
"They have mind control techniques, Fran. You don't know your own mind once they've got inside your head. It's terrifying."
"Horrifying."
"Dreadful."
Fran crossed her arms. "I think it's lovely that the two of you have finally got together."
"Together?" Manny said.
"Got?" Bernard said.
***
The problem, Bernard thought that night, as he sipped from his fifth bottle of wine – he was trying to be sensible after the previous night's calamities – was with the modern world. Things like that television with the poorly-scripted pornography. What else could they have done?
The aliens were probably from a really advanced culture who wanted them to show the world what could be done. All the possibilities that were out there.
He saw a flash of beard out of the corner of his eye. "Going out, Manny?"
Manny shrugged. "Thought I might stay in."
Bernard looked at him. "All right."
"Yeah?"
Bernard exhaled loudly. "Well, sit down, for God's sake, you're blocking the telly."
Manny sat, and then frowned. "It's not turned on."
"I know."
"There's nothing but a blank screen."
"It's all crap anyway. Here, have some of this." He handed over the bottle.
"Good," Manny pronounced. "Oaky."
"That's cork, it fell in earlier."
"Ah."
"But, see, this is all we need," Bernard said, gesturing around the room. "Wine, good company, none of this modern technology digital bullshit."
"Indeed."
"I think that's why the aliens picked us, you know."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. I think they knew we were, you know, their sort of people."
"They must have," Manny nodded. He paused. "Do you think they'll pick us again?"
Bernard hadn't thought about that. "They could, I suppose. They're centuries – millennia – ahead of us. They could do anything. And we wouldn't even know until it was too late." He gazed thoughtfully at the glass in his hand, and took another gulp.