For soon these will all be luxury items, only available to the wealthy of the world. Soon, this world will fall to its knees and beg like virginal nieces, and pay any price we name, for the precious tea and beauteous biscuits of Great Great Britain.
Soon the re-purposed slaughterhouses will spew forth their jammy bounty. Oh how the great unwashed will queue as far as the eye can see, for work sets you free. One bolt per head. We may need to look at that.
"Perhaps we could have them fight to the death, for a chance at the vats?" Suggests the chairman of The British Wool Marketing Board.
"Oh I like that." Chimes Boris as he parks a Dinky Phantom V between the patent leather shoes of the Barclay twins. Their cold grey eyes follow his progress with an eerie precision.
But this timeless solace is interrupted by the sound of choking, the ugly jazz-like clatter of a china tea cup against the edge of an oak conference table, biscuit crumbs flashing gold in the sunlight. One of the editors drops to his knees, crumples face first into the Axminster carpet. The others stand in silence at this insulting turn of events. The editor in chief, his grey Aryan features offset by the gold rings of his predatory irises, presses the buzzer for the servants to sweep up the shattered china.