Once we've all been transformed into magical jam factory workers living in a sweet smelling 1930s white Britopia, who will The Daily Mail types turn on for their fear porn fix? Apple Sauce labourers? Scrumpers?
On the horizon, like the blush of dawn, I see a bright future, where Blackberries are re-branded as Britberries; where landlords and successful businessmen wear tweed plus fours and gun down berry poachers, as is their right.
Retired Jam Factory workers smile as they wipe sweat from their brows, picking over-sized English apples in their orchard gardens as a new generation of school leavers cycle on down the road to the Jam Factory in flat caps and trousers with braces, thrilling beneath the great gleaming smile of the Golly Wog atop the factory gates.
The paperboy passes by at a sensible speed, in cloth cap and high-waisted trousers with braces, gently depositing copies of The Daily Mail on doorsteps dusted with the soft-bright pollen of this eternal English Summer. At the end of the street a woman scrubs blood stains from her WELCOME mat.
The air chimes with the scent of freshly baked white bread, the brassy sounds of bicycle bells, C of E bells and the buzz of British bees. We eat white bread now. It's fine.
The newspaper headlines are all becalmed and all is right with the Empire. All of the sex perverts have been slain; celebrity sleaze has been lanced, the working class have been inoculated against work shyness, all thanks to the power and might of great English journalism.
No more talk of Muslims or the E.D.L. anymore. For truly, the British Biro is mightier than the unchristian Damascus steel sword of multiculturalism.
The brave but unruly right wing extremists have all found their calling: as hospital porters, soft service workers behind the scenes at airports, traditional abattoirs and subdued shopping malls. The dynamic contrast between the fresh scrub uniforms and the fading blue-grey ink of facial tattoos. The intoxicating sweetness of repressed male rage; the tightening-grip whisper of repressed male homoeroticism.
A new, stronger generation of white upper middle class adults emerge from the cloisters of the great old universities, squinting in the summer haze, clutching doctorate diplomas, stethoscopes and prescription books. A man with the sexual glint of the predator in his handsome blue eyes smiles behind a clipboard. Halcyon days.
The blight of the foreign work force is but a distant memory, like tea leaves at the bottom of a china cup. No more their smiling coloured faces, no more the exotic celebratory clothing, no noisily melodic foreign accents thanking you for your custom, telling you not to worry, asking you if you'd like anything else, happy to be of service; acquitting lower class men of criminal activities when a good prison sentence would sort them out regardless. Just good old ruddy-cheeked Englishness. Decency. Obtuseness. A chemical-swelling of the pores. Failed capillary veins mapping decades of alcohol abuse on a pock-marked face. Eyes the colour of morning piss. Teeth like a display of half-chewed British toffees. Pushing a youthful face into the dirt.
Lardaceous mild English cheese. Acrid English butter, sterilized English milk. White bread. Delivered by clean-limbed men in caps and uniforms, energized by unquenched sexual appetites. White aprons stained with miscellaneous effluences. Teeth like standing stones. Eyes moist and hungry.
All the old bothersome, over-educated youths with ideas above their station have been rightly tamed: they work as fruit pickers now, their lives an unending summer's day in the golden fields of a new England. Scrumpy and the shadows of domestic violence on the weekends. The Royal Variety show on in the background.
Tucked away in damp rooms behind the crumbling walls of tiny, sallow apartments in carcinogenic grey concrete. The shadows of happier times cast across the abandoned communal gardens: echoes of unity. Divide and rule. Burned mattresses; vicious, hungry eyes in faces young without youth.
Our streets are safe now. No more unsightly gangs of people of questionable sexualities in garish clothing. So noisy in their happiness and their 'freedoms'. No doubt that sort of thing goes on behind closed doors still, but at least they know their place. Subdued in natural fibers, gold jewellery, family photos in cheap Balsa wood frames, the scent of real soap masking something dark and oily.
Banished are the sports casually attired children of the great unemployable masses. So much cannon fodder gone to seed. Such a waste. London's streets are as silent and unlittered as a 1950s Wednesday. Early closing, the flutter of grease proof paper and brown butchers string. The bright flash of blood pooling on gleaming white tiles. No more the indulgent luxury of 'youth'.
Songs of Praise on the television. Dad's Army. Delicious hints of war in Europe. How wonderful that would be. Like a sallow cream cake in a shop window. On a doily. Let's pack off a goodly amount of working class youth, keep the numbers down, make real men out of the survivors. They'll be glad of any job. Obedient. Thankful. Terror sealed off behind the eyes. A silent scream.
That'll teach the EU where the power really is. Send in the troops. Boots gleaming in the dazzling brightness of today, tomorrow, yesterday. Forever England, forever the picnic basket of fortune, smearing butter on the burns on the back of a hand. The shocking rush from slapping a child with the back of a hand for crying in public. Locking them away until they finish their homework. Silent, dignified mealtimes. Mopping up the gravy with a slice of white bread.
One public house per town or village, the way it always should have been. A tea dance on a Saturday afternoon. Noise meters, bunting and a 9 pm curfew for the under 40s. Good old fashioned Police corruption, patent leather shoes up on the desk, stretching far back in a Chesterfield chair. High-tar cigarettes unfurl for days on end. Phones off the hook. Cash prizes for local councils, new roads to nowhere.
With a real old fashioned Conservative government at the helm, gleaming in cerulian blue. Hard like an English willow cricket bat. The loving comfort of paternal sadism, like an old brown teddy bear filled with bad drugs. Bright white smiles, boarding school ties, the blight of the Polytechnic riff-raff hosed down and purged.
A luxurious afternoon snooze in the House of Commons, the scent of warm leather. Dreaming of 1980s cocaine, champagne and sexual abandon. Dribble on the collar, sweating out brandy beneath layers of tailored tweed.
The shadows of Socialism on the dirty billboards outside the boarded up co-operative cafes. Sinister community values. Dirty, horrific notions of equality. The power has been cut, the locks sealed up.
The sense of relief that comes from knowing that nothing is new and nothing new will ever be. No more the pot-luck of innovation. No risk factors. A return to Bakelite, white tiled corridors with royal blue trim stretching on forever, forever England.
The school scents of sawdust and bodily fluids, forever, forever England. A beautiful die-back. A near pre-industrial simplicity. Thank God. Thank the great Grandfather in the sky that is the English God. The beauty of a silent, angry, vengeful English God.
Thereasa May in the ladies loos, the tap of steel on mirrored glass. Bowie on the earphones. The comforting weight of the knuckle dusters in her left jacket pocket – ruining the line but a welcome compromise. Shadow boxing, she eyes her reflection with a satisfied smirk.
The seductive beauty of Divide and Rule.
Rich veins of cash from foreign students to placate unruly northern cities best left to their own devices. The dirty passion of the dispossessed. Finest education on the planet - to those intelligent enough to have been born to families that can afford it.
Harvest the myth that hard work leads to the greatest rewards. Works set you free. Good old fashioned English superstition to keep the masses at bay.
The sun is going down to the sounds of the tolling of factory bells, the disapproving shuffle of the clocking out machines, ticking off those precious grimy British coppers. Brown cardboard, callouses and warm fatigue.
A pint of English bitter in the country styled pub on the way home. The air thick with the scent of sweat, frying pork and burned toast. Dulled faces trudging home with their lights out, all of the fight and self-awareness muscled out of them with a good hard days graft. Work sets you free. You, not me. Some freedoms are a privilege. And rightly so.
No more the sounds of shattered glass and revelry. Communities are silent now, respectful, distant. No more the troublesome camaraderie that generates energy where it shouldn't be. Divide and rule. As far as the eye can see. Some Mothers Do ‘Ave ‘Em and Alf Garnnet on the telly, void of irony. Class traitors and the celebration of idiocy. Forever, forever England.
They’re bringing the car round to the bins behind the House of Commons. She is dabbing the faded blue-grey swastika at her neck with foundation. She puts on her gloves.
The penetrative scent of burned paper from the hot, brutalist incinerator. From the boot of the car the familiar muffled sounds of limbs bound, of a mouth gagged. Sounds that she has come to know and love. The special love that predator has for prey.
She emerges into the golden light as they pop open the trunk. He is squinting against the halo of her hair. There is blood and sweat pasting his fringe to his forehead. His eyes are full of fear, regret, sorrow. He is scruffy. These are things of the past.
From his luxurious suite in the east tower of Buckingham Palace, Rupert Murdoch gazes out at an England transformed by the power of his will and words. His work is almost done.
He notes his reflection in the floor to ceiling security glass: the gleaming new body feels a little tight. The process takes noticeably longer each time now. The thick black ichor of his soul is a burden for the strongest of flesh.
He sips Kenyan coffee from a tiny human skull. It’s a little too cool. He makes a mental note to have the kitchen staff executed and replaced before the end of the day.
Distantly, the scent of burning, the blush of fire on the horizon. Sunset?
Report by M. Taylor
On the horizon, like the blush of dawn, I see a bright future, where Blackberries are re-branded as Britberries; where landlords and successful businessmen wear tweed plus fours and gun down berry poachers, as is their right.
Retired Jam Factory workers smile as they wipe sweat from their brows, picking over-sized English apples in their orchard gardens as a new generation of school leavers cycle on down the road to the Jam Factory in flat caps and trousers with braces, thrilling beneath the great gleaming smile of the Golly Wog atop the factory gates.
The paperboy passes by at a sensible speed, in cloth cap and high-waisted trousers with braces, gently depositing copies of The Daily Mail on doorsteps dusted with the soft-bright pollen of this eternal English Summer. At the end of the street a woman scrubs blood stains from her WELCOME mat.
The air chimes with the scent of freshly baked white bread, the brassy sounds of bicycle bells, C of E bells and the buzz of British bees. We eat white bread now. It's fine.
The newspaper headlines are all becalmed and all is right with the Empire. All of the sex perverts have been slain; celebrity sleaze has been lanced, the working class have been inoculated against work shyness, all thanks to the power and might of great English journalism.
No more talk of Muslims or the E.D.L. anymore. For truly, the British Biro is mightier than the unchristian Damascus steel sword of multiculturalism.
The brave but unruly right wing extremists have all found their calling: as hospital porters, soft service workers behind the scenes at airports, traditional abattoirs and subdued shopping malls. The dynamic contrast between the fresh scrub uniforms and the fading blue-grey ink of facial tattoos. The intoxicating sweetness of repressed male rage; the tightening-grip whisper of repressed male homoeroticism.
A new, stronger generation of white upper middle class adults emerge from the cloisters of the great old universities, squinting in the summer haze, clutching doctorate diplomas, stethoscopes and prescription books. A man with the sexual glint of the predator in his handsome blue eyes smiles behind a clipboard. Halcyon days.
The blight of the foreign work force is but a distant memory, like tea leaves at the bottom of a china cup. No more their smiling coloured faces, no more the exotic celebratory clothing, no noisily melodic foreign accents thanking you for your custom, telling you not to worry, asking you if you'd like anything else, happy to be of service; acquitting lower class men of criminal activities when a good prison sentence would sort them out regardless. Just good old ruddy-cheeked Englishness. Decency. Obtuseness. A chemical-swelling of the pores. Failed capillary veins mapping decades of alcohol abuse on a pock-marked face. Eyes the colour of morning piss. Teeth like a display of half-chewed British toffees. Pushing a youthful face into the dirt.
Lardaceous mild English cheese. Acrid English butter, sterilized English milk. White bread. Delivered by clean-limbed men in caps and uniforms, energized by unquenched sexual appetites. White aprons stained with miscellaneous effluences. Teeth like standing stones. Eyes moist and hungry.
All the old bothersome, over-educated youths with ideas above their station have been rightly tamed: they work as fruit pickers now, their lives an unending summer's day in the golden fields of a new England. Scrumpy and the shadows of domestic violence on the weekends. The Royal Variety show on in the background.
Tucked away in damp rooms behind the crumbling walls of tiny, sallow apartments in carcinogenic grey concrete. The shadows of happier times cast across the abandoned communal gardens: echoes of unity. Divide and rule. Burned mattresses; vicious, hungry eyes in faces young without youth.
Our streets are safe now. No more unsightly gangs of people of questionable sexualities in garish clothing. So noisy in their happiness and their 'freedoms'. No doubt that sort of thing goes on behind closed doors still, but at least they know their place. Subdued in natural fibers, gold jewellery, family photos in cheap Balsa wood frames, the scent of real soap masking something dark and oily.
Banished are the sports casually attired children of the great unemployable masses. So much cannon fodder gone to seed. Such a waste. London's streets are as silent and unlittered as a 1950s Wednesday. Early closing, the flutter of grease proof paper and brown butchers string. The bright flash of blood pooling on gleaming white tiles. No more the indulgent luxury of 'youth'.
Songs of Praise on the television. Dad's Army. Delicious hints of war in Europe. How wonderful that would be. Like a sallow cream cake in a shop window. On a doily. Let's pack off a goodly amount of working class youth, keep the numbers down, make real men out of the survivors. They'll be glad of any job. Obedient. Thankful. Terror sealed off behind the eyes. A silent scream.
That'll teach the EU where the power really is. Send in the troops. Boots gleaming in the dazzling brightness of today, tomorrow, yesterday. Forever England, forever the picnic basket of fortune, smearing butter on the burns on the back of a hand. The shocking rush from slapping a child with the back of a hand for crying in public. Locking them away until they finish their homework. Silent, dignified mealtimes. Mopping up the gravy with a slice of white bread.
One public house per town or village, the way it always should have been. A tea dance on a Saturday afternoon. Noise meters, bunting and a 9 pm curfew for the under 40s. Good old fashioned Police corruption, patent leather shoes up on the desk, stretching far back in a Chesterfield chair. High-tar cigarettes unfurl for days on end. Phones off the hook. Cash prizes for local councils, new roads to nowhere.
With a real old fashioned Conservative government at the helm, gleaming in cerulian blue. Hard like an English willow cricket bat. The loving comfort of paternal sadism, like an old brown teddy bear filled with bad drugs. Bright white smiles, boarding school ties, the blight of the Polytechnic riff-raff hosed down and purged.
A luxurious afternoon snooze in the House of Commons, the scent of warm leather. Dreaming of 1980s cocaine, champagne and sexual abandon. Dribble on the collar, sweating out brandy beneath layers of tailored tweed.
The shadows of Socialism on the dirty billboards outside the boarded up co-operative cafes. Sinister community values. Dirty, horrific notions of equality. The power has been cut, the locks sealed up.
The sense of relief that comes from knowing that nothing is new and nothing new will ever be. No more the pot-luck of innovation. No risk factors. A return to Bakelite, white tiled corridors with royal blue trim stretching on forever, forever England.
The school scents of sawdust and bodily fluids, forever, forever England. A beautiful die-back. A near pre-industrial simplicity. Thank God. Thank the great Grandfather in the sky that is the English God. The beauty of a silent, angry, vengeful English God.
Thereasa May in the ladies loos, the tap of steel on mirrored glass. Bowie on the earphones. The comforting weight of the knuckle dusters in her left jacket pocket – ruining the line but a welcome compromise. Shadow boxing, she eyes her reflection with a satisfied smirk.
The seductive beauty of Divide and Rule.
Rich veins of cash from foreign students to placate unruly northern cities best left to their own devices. The dirty passion of the dispossessed. Finest education on the planet - to those intelligent enough to have been born to families that can afford it.
Harvest the myth that hard work leads to the greatest rewards. Works set you free. Good old fashioned English superstition to keep the masses at bay.
The sun is going down to the sounds of the tolling of factory bells, the disapproving shuffle of the clocking out machines, ticking off those precious grimy British coppers. Brown cardboard, callouses and warm fatigue.
A pint of English bitter in the country styled pub on the way home. The air thick with the scent of sweat, frying pork and burned toast. Dulled faces trudging home with their lights out, all of the fight and self-awareness muscled out of them with a good hard days graft. Work sets you free. You, not me. Some freedoms are a privilege. And rightly so.
No more the sounds of shattered glass and revelry. Communities are silent now, respectful, distant. No more the troublesome camaraderie that generates energy where it shouldn't be. Divide and rule. As far as the eye can see. Some Mothers Do ‘Ave ‘Em and Alf Garnnet on the telly, void of irony. Class traitors and the celebration of idiocy. Forever, forever England.
They’re bringing the car round to the bins behind the House of Commons. She is dabbing the faded blue-grey swastika at her neck with foundation. She puts on her gloves.
The penetrative scent of burned paper from the hot, brutalist incinerator. From the boot of the car the familiar muffled sounds of limbs bound, of a mouth gagged. Sounds that she has come to know and love. The special love that predator has for prey.
She emerges into the golden light as they pop open the trunk. He is squinting against the halo of her hair. There is blood and sweat pasting his fringe to his forehead. His eyes are full of fear, regret, sorrow. He is scruffy. These are things of the past.
From his luxurious suite in the east tower of Buckingham Palace, Rupert Murdoch gazes out at an England transformed by the power of his will and words. His work is almost done.
He notes his reflection in the floor to ceiling security glass: the gleaming new body feels a little tight. The process takes noticeably longer each time now. The thick black ichor of his soul is a burden for the strongest of flesh.
He sips Kenyan coffee from a tiny human skull. It’s a little too cool. He makes a mental note to have the kitchen staff executed and replaced before the end of the day.
Distantly, the scent of burning, the blush of fire on the horizon. Sunset?
Report by M. Taylor