#Sweary #Bowie #Music #Conversational-Dialogue

Ground Control to Major Tom

Liam & Noel Gallagher

Ground Control: "Ground control to Major Tom. Major bloody Tom, do you read me?"

Major Tom: "Yeah, I bloody read you loud and clear, Ground Control. What the hell do you want? I was enjoying my coffee—space freeze-dried sludge, but it’s warm."

Ground Control: "Well, you might want to put down your goddamn cup, Major Tom. Take your protein pills and put your helmet on. You’re about to go on a bloody spacewalk!"

Major Tom: "Oh, for the love of god, not the protein pills! Those things taste like powdered farts wrapped in disappointment. Fine, helmet’s going on, happy now? Bloody hell, it’s like I’m a toddler, and you’re my mum reminding me not to leave the house without pants!"

Ground Control: "Counting down, Major Tom. And by the way, if this all goes to hell, don’t say we didn’t warn you. Ten, nine, eight…"

Major Tom: "Oh, this is delightful. Counting down to my impending doom. What a confidence boost. Really motivating, Control. Thanks."

Ground Control: "Six, five… check ignition, and may God's love be with you…"

Major Tom: "Are you actually bringing up God now? Just what I need, a theological lecture on top of ‘don’t die out there, Tom’. Very bloody reassuring, Control."

Ground Control: "And lift-off. Engines are looking good. You've left the platform; this tin can is officially airborne. And by airborne, I mean ‘hurtling through space at speeds that make your guts feel like soup’."

Major Tom: "Gee, thanks for the lovely pep talk, Control. Here I am, floating around in this tiny little tin can, and let me tell you, it smells like last month’s laundry in here. For heaven’s sake, no one mentions the glamorous scent of damp metal and regret in astronaut school, do they?"

Ground Control: "We can see you, Major Tom. You’re floating in a most peculiar way."

Major Tom: "Peculiar? Peculiar!? I'm bobbing around in zero-g like a damned feather duster on steroids. My whole body is a floating, sweaty mess, Control. I don’t have the kind of grace these fancy NASA simulations pretend I’d have. Tell me, how do they make it look so slick on TV?"

Ground Control: "Well, we’re seeing something pretty spectacular from here. The stars look very different today."

Major Tom: "Yeah, real breathtaking—if you could only bottle the thrill of existential dread and cosmic emptiness. These stars are glaring at me like a pack of pissed-off paparazzi. And the Earth! She’s there, blue as hell, lookin’ all beautiful and fragile. Don’t know what’s more alarming: how stunning it is, or the fact I’m thousands of miles away from the nearest bathroom.”

Ground Control: "Are you drifting? Because it looks like you’re drifting far above the world. We've got zero control on this end, Tom."

Major Tom: "You don't have control? Of course, you bloody don’t! It’s a goddamn circus up here! Here I am, just floating, without a single line of control. Thanks, Control, for confirming I’m a fly in the universe's cosmic ointment. Do you reckon NASA's support manual has a chapter on 'Drifting Majors'?"

Ground Control: "We’re… we’re not sure we’ll be able to get you back."

Major Tom: "Oh, that’s bloody fantastic. Just delightful news, Ground Control. Here’s me, in my ‘tin can’—and oh, what an accurate bloody metaphor that is—miles above the Earth, and you’re telling me I’m on a one-way ticket to oblivion. Charming!"

Ground Control: "Your circuit’s dead. There’s something wrong, can you hear us, Major Tom?"

Major Tom: "No circuits? Oh, bloody perfect! I’m in a floating metal box with the power of a lightbulb on its last filament! Can I hear you? Yes, barely, but you’re breaking up like a teenage romance!"

Ground Control: "Major Tom, this is serious. Can you hear us? Are you getting through at all?"

Major Tom: "No, I’m just sitting here twiddling my thumbs, preparing for tea time. OF COURSE, I’M LISTENING! My god, you lot are about as helpful as a waterproof teabag! I'm gonna be bloody floating out here till my bones turn into comet dust, aren't I?"

Ground Control: "Major Tom, your signal is fading… you might be lost forever in space…"

Major Tom: "Well, cheers for the optimism, Control! Next time I’m signing up for a job, remind me to read the fine print about ‘getting lost forever.’ Bloody marvellous. Just me, the stars, and this floating metal coffin."

Ground Control: "...Goodbye, Major Tom."

Major Tom: "Goodbye? That’s it? No ‘thanks for your service’ or ‘you were a real hero’? Just ‘Goodbye’? You heartless bastards. Right, well, I’m off. Gonna float into oblivion, maybe start a scrapbook of depressing space selfies. Tell the Earthlings I said ‘sod off.’ Tom, out."

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