Saturday, 3 February 2018

image for The UK in 2050, post-Brexit The Briton tribes amuse themselves by building giant stone structures, and masturbating

Berlin, 2050. My name is Herman Boring, German ambassador to the Britons. I recently returned from a mission to that remote island, and I was shocked at what I found. It was my task to try to re-establish contact with the people there after many years of self-imposed isolation.

I had expected to see six-toed mutants and incestuous half-breeds living in a backward post-apocalyptic civilization, but what I found was far, far worse.

The first sign that something was amiss was when I approached the south coast. I saw groups of people standing on the cliffs, barking at the Channel.

Once I landed, I approached them though they looked dangerous and seemed incapable of ordinary speech. One of them clutched in his claw-like hand an old yellowing copy of a newspaper from years gone by. The date was not legible but the title was clearly visible - "Daily Mail" it read. They continued barking out to sea, seemingly unaware of my presence.

Inland, I came across more friendly villagers. They lived a primitive life, with no electricity and little shelter. Some wore modern clothing, but the clothes were ragged and must have been made years ago, before the country cut itself off. The people slept in wooden huts or "sheds" as they called them, and mostly ate turnips and potatoes. They insisted on frying everything in a deep cauldron full of pork fat, heated over an open fire.

Once I realised that they spoke a dialect of English, I was able to communicate relatively easily. They told me that their leader was someone called "The Emperor Rees Mogg", a very wealthy man in an enormous top hat who lived in a village called London and who they praised for "liberating" them. They also mentioned that the island was now divided into two - the southern Brexit half and a Remoaner half. They didn't know much about the Remoaner half, but I decided that I had to visit that later.

When I asked what had happened to them to cause them to isolate themselves from the rest of the world, they muttered something about an event called "The Great Embarrassment" which had happened years earlier. They would not speak any more about it, so I did not press them.

The Brexiters attempted to trade with me. They had a few beans and scraps and long lengths of internet cables that they treasured but had no use for. They wanted to trade these trinkets for everything I had with me, including my ship. Clearly they had a very poor understanding of trade. When I tried to offer a more sensible amount in exchange, they refused, while saying repeatedly, "No deal is better than a bad deal."

I asked if the people would consider rejoining international organisations such as the UN or NATO, as the UK had once been a member of these. They didn't seem to understand, and thought that joining any organisation that had fees or rules would mean a loss of sovereignty that was somehow unacceptable.

I decided to make my way to London, where I observed some street urchins playing football. I asked if they had ever heard about the World Cup. That only seemed to make them angry, as if reawakening some bitter memory.

Soon I found their apparent leader - or what remained of him. The Emperor Rees Mogg had been dressed in Victorian clothes and placed on a great throne in the shell of a grand old building, but his body was decaying and smelled awful. Still the people believed that he ruled them and looked to him for guidance.

I suggested that they might want to try voting for a new leader, but they insisted that they had already voted for Rees Mogg, and that the will of the people should be respected. "The will of the people," they chanted repeatedly.

Realising that these people were quite mad, I returned to my ship and made my way to the northern part of the island - the Remoaner half.

Here I found a morose people who were quite uncommunicative, and who appeared to be suffering from some kind of shell shock. They also lived a primitive life, although they lacked the random anger or outright stupidity of their Brexit countrymen.

When they did speak, it was only to talk about how good things had once been, or to say "I told you this would happen." They never said anything else, so I quickly left.

It is with great regret then, that I recommended to our glorious Kanslerfuhrer, Herr Angela Merkelbot III, that we immediately fumigate the UK and repopulate it with a more productive German-speaking people, for the glory of our EU. May it reign for a thousand years!

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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