A glimpse into our post-Brexit future
Good citizens and patriots, imagine it’s 2034 and over a decade has passed since we were ejected from the EU in disgrace after a failed attempt to blast the Rock of Gibraltar free from its Spanish moorings.
We’re well past that moment when Jacob Rees-Mogg’s fantasies about Theresa May’s Gloriana made us all wonder whether this was another boarding school euphemism for a word his nanny would have washed his mouth out for uttering. How have we fared here in the East as the fever-dreams of our Brexit masters bite deep? Let’s take a look at what a post-Brexit Britain might be like, shall we?
In order to qualify for a patriotism grant, every town has to install a maypole so buxom wenches might dance, holding ribbons of St Georges’s red and white. All British men must smell like Nigel Farage, emitting a fug of fags and days-old coffee breath, both of which are now cheaper to buy than a tub of household salt. Howzat?
The Brexiteer government voted to do whatever they could to accelerate global warming (despite not really believing that it exists) so they could quickly Make Britain Great Again by subsidising farmers to plant their fields with coffee, tobacco and bananas of the correct dimensions.
What they didn’t tell you was that other countries refused to sell them to us. These crops are viable in a climate that’s now 85 degrees year-round and the fact that there’s now so many tropical storms we’ve had to start recycling their names, and our foreheads are crusty with solar keratoses turned malignant, is a small price to pay. Your life expectancy might be cut short but at least it’ll be a British doctor chopping off your skin cancers. That’s if you can get an appointment because foreign NHS staff cleared off after David Davis failed to negotiate their right to stay. What else are we still waiting on? A replacement for Open Skies, EHIC cards and pretty much everything else that is useful when trying to leave the island. You probably won’t be able to afford a foreign holiday anyway because it now costs £2k to fly to Benidorm and the Spanish hate you so much they’ve bulldozed your holiday flat.
Anecdotally, green and pleasant lands tend to become less so in the dystopian future and there were fears that East Anglia would be particularly vulnerable. Do not worry! The government is working hard to reclaim the bucolic past you never actually had in the first place: Morris Dancing is now compulsory for all men; Barbara Windsor has been made Minister for Culture, Sid James is a saint and a rolling cast of English spinsters have been employed to cycle to Evensong each day in order that our country lanes retain a fifties vibe. Ministers have been studying The Darling Buds of May for useful tips on rural Englishness although the sequel where Pa Larkin takes his family to France on their hols has been banned as unpatriotic.
The Department of Taking Our Country Back (DOTOCB) have been busy DNA-testing British people for Anglo Saxon ancestry which caught out three quarters of the EDL: arguments persist as to where to send them back to because no other country wants them. East Anglians are particularly proud of their role in the British version of Trump’s ‘Drain The Swamp’ initiative when the government realised that in the Fens, they already had a usable prototype. The original engineer, Cornelius Vermuyden, who was responsible for phase II in 1650, was airbrushed out of the Wikipedia entry when it was realised that he came from the Netherlands and his name was replaced by Sid from Ely who can trace his ancestors all the way back to a nest of local eels.
There was a mild panic when the DOTOCB realised that in order to achieve its aims, all the native farming and hospitality industry employees who were in SUCH a rush to take up the jobs previously filled by EU nationals had to be redeployed elsewhere. This also meant that restaurants were temporarily closed unless they served British food where they could apply for special dispensation. Trouble is, now we’ve eliminated Brussels ‘red tape’, workers are dropping like flies as a result of 70 hour working weeks, no paid holiday, sick or maternity leave but we’re free! Who cares? It’s the Will Of The People!