“Only the one drink?” asked the table. Bill pondered for a moment and stabbed the glowing Coke icon.
“How do you like their new TV campaign?” I asked, nodding at the icon as it faded from the table.
“The ‘We are Britain’ ads? Great. Bringing back the Sex Pistols, genius.”
“Huh? I haven’t seen those. I was talking about their ‘One World’ campaign with the Beatles. Incredible how they’ve brought them all back together with CGI.”
Bill was mystified. “The Beatles?”
“You haven’t seen it? Look, there’s one of the ads now,” I said, pointing out of the window at a passing bus that carried an enormous live motion image of John, Paul, George and Ringo (mop-head era) trading Coke spray with a laughing Elvis.
“Yeah, that’s what I was talking about,” he nodded, “The Sex Pistols. And the new black pack.”
“Quick, swap me your AR specs,” I said. We shut our eyes and swapped specs. Opened our eyes again. Now the Sex Pistols were threatening me with the jagged remains of Coke bottles. I flinched as a sneering Sid appeared to hurl his bottle right at me.
Of course, I thought. AI-enabled AR.
I looked around with Bill’s augmented eyesight. Behind the bar, the pub’s logo had lost its intertwined oak leaves and now featured a semi-ironic flaming skull. The retro railway posters on the walls had turned into photos of elaborately tattooed torsos.
“I feel ill, to be honest,” I said. Then, cheering up, “Hey, great news about the LibDems ditching Brexit though.”
“Joker. Farage jailed the last of the bastards only this morning.”
I shook my head in despair. Then removed Bill’s AR specs and looked around. We were sitting in a wasteland. Mutant wolves caught our scent and loped towards us.