FOD will be the last man standing on Instagram.
In 2052, as they prepare to cease running the platform, it’s programmers find one solitary account still producing content.
They log on to find a selfie video of a bedraggled pensioner, talking in tongues, his burton Jorts around his ankles, cuddling a ball of his children’s hair bands that he has affectionately named Clementine.
His face resembles a walnut. His hands withered and crooked from decades of smartphone usage. He resides in a derelict, draughty pile of bricks on the Kent coast and spends his days pacing the dimly lit rooms, filming himself as he goes, wailing into the void as he yearns for days gone by.
He is a sad shell of a man. He is without the comfort and warmth of close friends and family. He is destined to live out his final lonely days in an ex-Dentist’s surgery.
He is... Father of Daughters.