On T-Space

On T-Space

"You mean to say there's a factory that makes this stuff?"

I've written before on H-Space, the notion that all hotel rooms in the world are linked through some kind of multi-dimensional portal. This, of course, follows Terry Pratchett's argument that all libraries and bookshops are linked through a spatial dimension called L-Space, known only to a select few in sensible shoes and jumpers with patches at the elbows.

So it is the same for seaside souvenir shops. I've lived in Weymouth long enough to realise this, and my visit to other resort, both in the UK and abroad only go to confirm my suspicions.

Whilst the guardians of L-Space use their knowledge for the good of society, this is not the case for those trapped in Tat-Space. Step into the stockroom of any seaside or big city souvenir shop, and you are drawn into the hellish reality of T-Space, where its not-quite-human inhabitants produce cheap plastic toys that break within seconds, novelty ashtrays shaped genetalia, and endless, endless guff bearing the words "A souvenir of [insert name here]". Guff designed solely to kill off any desire in the recipient to visit that place, ever.

T-Space, it is rumoured, emerges in Taiwan, and is funded entirely by the sale of dirty playing cards. There are those, however, who argue that T-Space is nothing but an entry to the Underworld, with the largest and most potent Hellmouth located in Blackpool, leading to a barren world where all the trees have been felled for lucky bingo card holders, and everyone wears t-shirts saying "My mate went to HELL and all I got was this lousy t-shirt".

It is a world to which no man should be drawn. They're always recruiting. Fudge packers.