In the future we will all be famous for 15 minutes. It will be on

Host: The neon of the city flickered like an anxious pulse in the rain-soaked night. A thousand screens glowed from windows, each one a tiny cathedral of attention, each one offering a promise — be seen, be liked, be remembered. The streets were quiet, but the air itself seemed to hum with the static of broadcasts that never ended.

Inside a small television studio café, the kind that still smelled faintly of makeup powder and coffee, Jack sat under a soft fluorescent halo, his grey eyes fixed on a screen where an interviewer smiled at a guest who smiled back — the smile of someone aware they were being watched.

Jeeny sat across from him, her dark hair slightly damp, her coat folded on the chair beside her. The studio clock above the counter was stuck at 4:00 p.m., its hands frozen, the illusion of perpetual daytime.

They had just read Frankie Boyle’s words — half prophecy, half satire — and now they sat in the artificial calm of that exact future.

Jeeny: “It’s funny, isn’t it? How accurate he was. We’ve built a world where everyone’s performing for an audience that’s not even there. Fifteen minutes of fame, multiplied into fifteen seconds on TikTok.”

Jack: “Fifteen seconds is generous. Most people can’t hold attention for more than five. We’ve industrialized visibility, Jeeny. It’s not about being famous anymore — it’s about being noticed before the next swipe.”

Host: The sound of machinery hummed faintly from behind the walls, where studio technicians edited, trimmed, and filtered fragments of faces into consumable perfection. The clock ticked — or perhaps pretended to tick — as the air conditioner exhaled its permanent chill.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what Boyle meant? That our fame wouldn’t be about greatness, but about editability. We’ll give them our stories, our smiles, our selves, and they’ll cut it all down until it fits between two advert breaks.”

Jack: “He was being cynical, not prophetic. He saw the absurdity, but he didn’t warn us — he mocked us. And he was right to. Look at us. Everyone’s a brand now. Even the authenticity is curated.”

Jeeny: “But that’s the tragedy, Jack. We started wanting to share, and ended up performing. We turned connection into content.”

Jack: (leans back, scoffing) “You make it sound like we were ever pure. People have always performed — in churches, in parliaments, at family dinners. Social media didn’t invent the mask, it just gave it a filter and a like button.”

Host: The camera in the corner blinked, a small red light glowing to indicate that even here, they were being watched. The rain outside had thickened, drumming softly on the windows, muting the world beyond.

Jeeny: “But you can’t tell me it’s the same. Before, people wanted to be seen by their community — now they want to be seen by the void. There’s a difference. It’s one thing to be known, another to be scrolled past by a million strangers.”

Jack: “That’s the price of democracy, Jeeny — the democracy of the feed. Everyone’s famous, everyone’s forgotten. It’s equal in its emptiness.”

Jeeny: “Then what’s the point? Why keep performing?”

Jack: “Because silence is worse. People would rather be hated than invisible. That’s what keeps the algorithm fed — fear.”

Jeeny: “Fear and loneliness. But isn’t that what Boyle was laughing at? That we’d all end up chasing relevance inside a system that never actually cares who we are? Just how well we fit the segment.”

Jack: “You say that like you’re not part of it. You post your paintings online, don’t you? You check the comments. You look for feedback.”

Jeeny: “Because I still believe in connection, Jack. In the idea that behind every screen is a person. Maybe naïve, but it keeps me human.”

Jack: “Humanity’s not the problem — context is. When everyone’s broadcasting, no one’s listening. It’s white noise with a smile.”

Host: The café’s television flickered, showing a talk show where a guest was laughing, framed under the exact same clock, the same 4 p.m. smile, the same comforting light that made everything look safe. The interviewer’s voice was soft, predictable, a tone designed to soothe, not challenge.

Jeeny: “Do you remember when people used to think fame meant legacy? Now it just means visibility. You can’t even measure it anymore — it’s like trying to catch rain in your hands.”

Jack: “Or like trying to hold smoke. But that’s the beauty of it too. Fifteen minutes means no one can own the stage forever. It’s a rotation — everyone gets their turn at illusion.”

Jeeny: “But if everything’s an illusion, what’s real?”

Jack: “The edit. The cut. The part they choose to keep — that’s what becomes your truth. And once it’s aired, it’s permanent. You could speak for hours, and they’ll only keep the smile that fits their narrative.”

Jeeny: “You mean the truth becomes what they can use.”

Jack: “Exactly. The rest gets deleted — like it never existed. Fame isn’t about visibility, Jeeny. It’s about control.”

Host: A pause. The rain stopped again, leaving the world damp and electric. The studio clock still read 4:00. Time, like attention, was frozen.

Jeeny: “Do you think people even want truth anymore?”

Jack: “They want comfort. The illusion of honesty, packaged with symmetry and good lighting.”

Jeeny: “So we’re all just… performers pretending not to be.”

Jack: “Yes. Frankie Boyle just saw the curtain before the show began. He knew that the future wouldn’t be about greatness or artistry — it’d be about production. Even our souls would have to pass editing.”

Jeeny: “But maybe that’s the joke, Jack. Maybe his satire was the only truth left — that the fame he mocked is exactly what we’ve turned into: an assembly line of confessions, a factory of faces.”

Jack: “Then we’ve become our own laugh track. We laugh, but it’s recorded. We cry, but it’s edited. We exist, but only between ad breaks.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Maybe that’s why people are so tired. Not because they’re working — because they’re pretending.”

Host: The studio lights dimmed, the buzz of the fluorescents giving way to a low hum of silence. The clock above them still refused to move, its hands fixed, its face eternal — a symbol of a world looping endlessly between segments of rehearsed humanity.

Jack: “You know what the real irony is? When everyone gets their fifteen minutes, no one remembers anyone at all.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s mercy.”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just forgetfulness disguised as forgiveness.”

Jeeny: “So what do we do then, Jack? Just stop talking? Stop sharing?”

Jack: “No. We just stop expecting to be heard.”

Jeeny: (smiles sadly) “And what’s left after that?”

Jack: “Peace, maybe. Or at least, privacy.”

Host: The camera light went off. The red glow disappeared. For the first time that evening, the room was real — unrecorded, unfiltered, alive.

Jeeny and Jack sat in the half-light, neither smiling, neither posing — two faces returned to truth.

And outside, the neon faded, one sign at a time, until the city seemed to breathe again — quiet, unwatched, free.

Host: The clock remained at 4:00, as if to remind them — the performance never really ends. But for now, at least, the audience was gone.