A vision granted me, by the grace of God, from the not-too-distant future

A desolate wasteland with, amidst the smouldering ruins and starving wretches, a beautifully laid table, replete with the finest of dishes, at which Prime Minister Gove, Home Secretary Johnson, and Lord Farage sit stuffing their faces. “We’re in charge!” they cry in delight, wiping their greasy fingers with ten pound notes, now so much cheaper than napkins. “We’re independent!” they chortle as they chow down on—what is this? why yes!—roasted and skewered working people, done to a turn. So much easier to procure than expensive imported meats. Just regrettable that the meat tends to be stringy and underfed.

One of the dishes squirms and moves—it’s still alive! A tortured face turns to Michael. “But sir,” it protests, “this isn’t what you promised, it’s not what you promised at all. You promised utopia, and this is awful.”

“No, no,” replies Michael. “We said it might be wonderful. And you know, from where I’m sitting, it’s rather nice. And you can’t complain. You did vote for this.”

“The truth is,” blusters Boris, affably, charmingly old-boyishly, “we rather spun you a line. No, no. In fact, we blatantly lied to you. We were entirely interested in our own advancement, and knew that if disaster came about”—a rumble in the distance signifies the collapse of the smoking ruins of Threadneedle Street—“we’d be just dandy and you’d all bear the brunt. What on earth made you think that we’d look after you? I used to burn fifty pound notes under tramps’ noses, you know. Admittedly everyone burns fifty pound notes just for warmth now, what with energy costing a grand a unit. But I never, ever, ever gave anything remotely resembling a flying fuck for those of you who weren’t … well, who weren’t me, to be frank. I’m telling you all this because I’m so very affable and roguish that I know you’ll just let me off the hook.”

The face twists briefly into an understanding smile, until it is finally exterminated by a skewer thrust from Lord Nigel.

“Take it away,” he demands of the cowed waiting staff. “Looked a little over-cooked, if you get my meaning. A bit too dark for my liking. Only white meat in my Britain, thank you very much.”

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